Burn
by Roobini
Summary: 'Because that's all I am to you, isn't it? To you, to the whole court. Something to forget.' Under the pressure of a dying English queen, Mary had to make a choice. Two very different men, two hearts on the line, two versions of herself. She chose to marry Francis, her long-intended fiancé, and the future she had always pictured. Did she make the right decision? A Mash fanfic.
1. Chapter 1

**Sebastian**

You shall not covet your neighbour's wife. The bible is resoundingly clear on that one; there is not a lot of room for interpretation. I wonder if coveting your _brother's_ wife might be a considered something of a loophole in the rule, though for some reason I doubt it. Being the bastard son of a King, with three legitimate brothers to contend with, you would think that I would be used to the feeling of jealousy. But I'm not. In the past I have never cultivated the habit of envying Francis, not of his power, of his future as King of France, of his last name. I would certainly have done away with that poisonous word, _bastard, _and all the spite that comes with it if I could, but I have always known that Francis has his own troubles, and that he does the job of carrying them a great deal better than I ever could. But that was before the Queen of Scotland returned to Chateau de Fontainebleau. Everything has changed now.

Watching them now, watching her, I know I should never have stayed at court. I've been anticipating their return the whole two months of their honeymoon, half convinced that the torment of my imagination's obsession with what they might be doing at any given moment must be far greater than the torment of actually seeing them. But now I _am _seeing them, and I know the belief that this would be any easier was just a desperate hope, as false as the line I chant in my head every night as I try to sleep. _I feel nothing for her, I feel nothing for her, I feel nothing for her._

Candlelight dances on her skin and in her hair, making her eyes shine as the side of her mouth quirks in a half-smile. Her hair is pinned up, and she tilts her head to one side as she listens to a nobleman speaking, her long neck curving gently in a way that begs to be touched by lips. I would give anything to respond to that request, to move up behind her and kiss her lovely neck, to graze my lips against her shoulder, and continue moving down…

'I didn't expect to see you here.' A voice interrupts my dangerous line of thought, and I turn to see Lola watching me with an expression that should be reserved for the crippled and the dying.

'I hope you haven't come to offer me pity, because I don't want it,' I say, with more malice than she deserves, and her cheeks flush.

'No, I just came to suggest that perhaps you should be somewhere else. Reminding Francis of your existence on his first night home might try his mercy a little too soon.'

'Francis can also keep his mercy. I'd rather face his fury, but I doubt he considers me enough of a threat to warrant it.' I glance over at my half-brother where he is in conversation only a few steps away from Mary. Dressed in all the red velvet finery and gold trimmings that would befit a future king, he radiates confidence. His stance is wide and his listeners hang on his every word, and he seems happy and at ease. Which probably means that he ahsn't seen me yet.

'Alright then, how about _your_ mercy? Could you offer Mary that?' There is an edge to Lola's tone and her eyebrows are drawn together, creating little ripples in the skin of her forehead.

'What do you mean?' I ask, surprised enough give her my full attention.

'Do you have to be here right now? This is supposed to be a happy homecoming for Mary; seeing you will give it a bitter flavour.'

I drop my eyes. 'I doubt I'd make that much of an impact.'

'You know you would, Bash. She cared for you, and she took no joy in breaking your heart.' Her voice softens, and she touches my arm, that horrible look back on her face, like she's watching a starving kitten. I shrug off her hand and take a step back.

'Alright, I'll go. I just wanted to see her.'

I move away from Lola quickly, melting into the crowd of well-wishers from which I am starkly excluded, ashamed and anxious to slip away. Is that really why I came? To haunt her like a troubled ghost that refuses to move on, reaching into her world to taint her future with the past? To torment her, like she has tormented me? I hope I am a better man than that. I hope I will have the strength to stay away and leave her to her happiness, to her life with the man that she chose.

I can hear the whispers I incite as I pass, hidden between the rustles of brightly-coloured fabric and the normal buzz of polite conversation. People cringe away from me even as their eyes follow my path through the crowd, and I reach the door with relief. Quiet shadows beckon me down long hallways that will end with the embrace of an anonymous night, and I pause for a moment on the threshold, seeking Mary in the crowd, just for one last glance. Perhaps the air trembles with the strength of my longing, perhaps my anguish causes the hairs on her beautiful neck to stand on end, for at the same moment as my eyes find her she suddenly catches sight of me. I hold her gaze. Time begins to slow, the seconds pass languidly and the voices of the hall seem to become muted. I can feel the danger of this moment like ice freezing my blood, and yet I am helpless to end it. I can see everything in her face, the whole future that I lost, cold mornings and long summer afternoons, picnics in the gardens and swimming in the lake, battles and triumphs, arguments and intimacies, a little girl with my eyes and her smile, a lifetime of loving the fiercest, most vibrant woman I have ever known. Someone approaches her and she finally looks away, the colour high in her cheeks, and I am free to drag myself from the room. At first I walk slowly, but then my pace quickens and I begin to run, blindly, my eyes burning and my heart screaming, my feet pounding against the stone, thinking only that I need air. I should have left two months ago, but there is no reason I can't remedy that mistake now.

**Mary**

I had not wanted to create a fuss with our arrival home. I wanted to slip in through a back door, sneak through the secret passages and into my chamber before anyone realised we had set foot on the grounds. In fact, I begged Francis not to send word ahead of our return. But Francis isn't particularly partial to begging, and he certainly didn't see any reason for sneaking back into the castle like a pair of children who have stayed out past their bedtime. So there is a feast, a celebration, the eyes of the court to endure, the congratulations and well wishes of all the people who have plotted and schemed and whispered. They are all pretending they don't remember that a scarce two months ago I had been set to marry a different man. No one says a word of it to me, but I know that they are whispering in the corners of the room.

The hall is warm, stifling almost, filled with candles and people and the heat of wine-flushed cheeks and the hot air of gossiping mouths. I dressed extra carefully for the occasion, threading gold ribbon through my hair and pinning it up in a delicate coiffure, choosing a dress of a colour blue that stirs my memories like dead leaves in the wind. I've been telling myself all afternoon that my vanity is due to a need to impress the court, to make Francis proud to have me standing by his side. But I'm glancing around the room now, looking for dark hair and blue eyes at the same time as I'm dreading to find them here, and I know I'm lying to myself.

Francis is talking to a woman now, a little nymph-like creature with wide eyes and a low-cut dress. Her voice is soft, she has a laugh like crystal wine glasses clinking together, and she is obviously finding him highly amusing. Women always find Francis highly amusing. There is no reason they shouldn't, either. He is charming and handsome, his blonde hair gleaming gold and an easy smile on his lips. He is radiant, possessed of a surety that comes with his birth right, that the world is at his feet and he may take from it what he will. Just one look at him and you can tell that he is going to be a king.

'Don't scowl like that, Mary,' he says, his voice low as he catches sight of me staring at him. 'We're newlyweds; you're supposed to be happy.'

I take a deep breath, making a conscious effort to unscrew my face. 'Of course. I'm sorry. I am happy.'

He reaches out and squeezes my hand briefly. 'Good. Relax and try to enjoy yourself.'

The affection in his eyes summons memories of the long, lazy mornings of the first few weeks of our honeymoon, of tender caresses with a backdrop of a turquoise Mediterranean Sea, of his eyes always on me. I smile at him, suddenly wanting to pull him away from the prying eyes and confess everything, to lay my heart at his feet and beg him to help me fix it. Maybe we could close the distance I feel from him, warm this strange cold that has seeped in between us. Maybe all it might take is a moment alone. I begin to lean towards him, intending to ask him to come somewhere with me a moment, but he moves away before I have the chance, his attention already for someone else, his marriage and his wife always just a peripheral concern. He is a good man, generous, fair and dedicated to his country, bound by his duty to his people. A good man, and he will be a great king. But do the same things that make a good king make a good husband?

With a sigh, I resign myself to the fact that I, too, must do my duty to my people and celebrate at my husband's side, presenting a strong, united front. The fluttering feeling that has inhabited my stomach for the rest of the evening is beginning to ebb now that it seems the confrontation I have dreaded may not come to pass after all. Though my relief is tainted with a hint of disappointment, I might actually be able to do as Francis bid and enjoy myself if I can just contain my worries. Even so, I glance towards the door with one last thought of escape.

And all my tentative hopes of an uncomplicated homecoming evaporate. Gravity loses its hold on me and for a moment I feel like I am falling, like I am caught in the brief, sickening moment of weightlessness as the ground rushes to meet me in a collision that will break my every bone. Eyes so blue they are almost sharp have sliced the room in half to rest on my face. I hadn't known how those eyes would linger in my mind. I had thought that, when securely married to Francis, they would fade away, that they would pale in comparison to the purity of our union, the trueness of our love.

I had first begun to realise that it wasn't quite that simple during the consummation ceremony, of all the terrible moments for such a realisation to surface. Francis had been sweet and considerate, his kisses turning my stomach upside down and his caresses making me tremble as he strove to help me forget the room full of witnesses. I tried to pretend it was just the two of us and ignore the watching eyes of the others in the room, but occasionally my concentration would waver and I would glance at them, blushing furiously.

I had heard the door open as more people quietly entered the room and I couldn't help myself. I opened my eyes to see who it was. Imagine my horror to find Sebastian, the man I had been engaged to only heartbeats ago, by the bed, his eyes tight shut as King Henry held him captive, forcing his head in my direction. What could I do? I couldn't reveal to Francis how upset it made me, and the king was obviously punishing him. I closed my eyes.

But then suddenly it wasn't Francis above me anymore. It was Bash. It was his face in my mind, his skin against mine, his panting breath in my ear. I pushed the thoughts away, but they returned again and again. The whole situation was so horrible, so convoluted, I had to keep quickly brushing away my tears before anyone could see them. When it was over I opened my eyes, seeking out Bash, wanting to convey with my expression how horrible I felt that he was there, how sorry I was for all the things I had put him through that had culminated in that moment, but it was too late. He was already gone.

And now I'm seeing him again for the first time since that night and all I can think about is how I wished for him. Holding his gaze makes me burn, but I can't look away. My face, neck and chest are feverishly hot and I can hardly breathe.

'Mary? Are you alright?' Lola's voice breaks the moment, and it shatters like china dropped onto a cold stone floor. I drag my eyes away.

'Yes, of course. Quite alright,' I say hastily, glancing back at the door, but once again, Bash is gone

'You look quite hot. Come, sit down for a while and I'll bring you something to drink.'

'Yes, a drink. Thankyou.' I do as she suggests, dropping into a chair with relief. Two months ago I stood in this room and was ordered to make a choice. Two men, two different lives, two hearts on the line. I had to pick just one.

I chose wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is my first time writing a fanfic (be gentle with me), so thankyou to everyone who is following along so far. I hope you are all enjoying my version of how things went down on Reign. I'm having a lot of fun paying homage to these characters and I hope I do them justice, but obviously I didn't create them and I fully acknowledge they don't belong to me. I'll try and post a new chapter every couple of days for those who are interested. I appreciate any comments!**

Needless to say, any possibility of enjoying my evening vanishes out the door with Bash, and I become a terrible fidget. Up and down and back and forth, my eyes darting about the room, I am completely incapable of holding a conversation for more than few minutes. I shift in my seat or on my feet, my hands twisting at napkins and tablecloths and my skirts. People are beginning to notice. Francis is beginning to notice.

'Is something the matter?' he murmurs, his cool hand pressing at the small of my back, anchoring me with enough pressure to convey a clear message: _stop pacing._

'Yes, actually, I'm afraid I'm feeling ill.' It's not even a lie. My hands are trembling.

'The feast is not for another hour. Perhaps you should go and lie down awhile,' he suggests, his breath tickling my ear. I frown at the words, forgetting for a moment that I really would like to be excused, instead remembering all the nights in Italy I was sent to bed alone. _You go on up, I'll follow a little later. _

'I think I will,' I say coldly. 'Would you please let my ladies know?' I move away without waiting for his reply, headed quickly for the door before anyone has a chance to stop me and reaching the corridor beyond with relief. Still moving quickly, I head in no particular direction, following a breath of cool night air and relishing in being unobserved. I let myself feel now what I had been trying so miserably to hide, let it settle into my expression and the stoop of my shoulders. I am undoubtedly shaken; as much as I had dreaded seeing Sebastian tonight, I never truly expected that I would. What on earth is he still doing at court, after everything that happened?

Coming back to myself, I realise I am about to reach the gallery that usually serves as my vantage point for watching fireworks. I quicken my pace, seduced by the promise of night air unimpeded by stone, dreaming of a cold breeze on my fevered skin. When I round the corner I see him and stop. Everything inside me loses its balance, teetering like a dozen spinning tops losing momentum, the overall effect being one of vertigo and nausea. He is leaning on the balustrade, elbows resting against stone, the lines of his body curving toward the stars as he watches them with a look of suffering that makes me wonder what he sees up there. The urge to touch him surges within me, overbalancing the spinning tops and causing them to finally fall. I lean against the doorframe, my knees weak with the agony of the moonlight on his skin and the way it falls over him in a play of silver and smoky shadow.

It may be a change in my breathing that gives me away, a sudden gasp for air after a moment of suspended breath, but his body stiffens with awareness and he turns to look at me, pushing away from the stone and stowing away the suffering on his face. He smiles suavely, his cheeks dimpling beneath a layer of stubble, and bows, eyes fixed on mine.

'Your grace.'

With all the discipline and stillness I have learned from a childhood spent in a nunnery, I pull myself together and straighten my back.

'Good evening, Sebastian. Beautiful night, isn't it?'

'Very.'

'Are you planning on watching the fireworks?'

'Perhaps. I'm sure you'll have some romantic vantage point from which to watch them with my brother.'

The blood I worked so hard to divert away from my cheeks returns and I quickly glance down, but not before I see a grim smile that tells me the moonlight has given me away.

'Well I hope you enjoy yourself, now if you'll excuse me-'

'Bash wait.' I reach out without thought, my arm extending, my hand drawn to him as though to magnetic north. My fingers brush the soft hair of his arm before I catch myself and drop my hand back to my side, my skin tingling. He halts at my touch and watches me expectantly, but I can't think of what I had planned on saying next.

'Did you enjoy your honeymoon?' he asks abruptly, moving back a step, taking himself beyond my reach. As he should be.

'I did, thank you. Italy is very diverting.' I do not want to talk about my honeymoon.

'And Francis, he is everything you expected him to be?'

'Yes, of course. He is a good man.' It is requiring more discipline than I have to keep from squirming, like a child being chastised.

'Excellent. I actually have some business to attend to, so if that is all-'

'Why are you here?' I blurt out, and he flinches. 'Not that I don't want you here,' I continue hastily, 'you're my husband's brother. But I would have thought that, after everything that happened, you would leave court.'

'This is my home, your Grace,' he replies simply, quietly.

'I'm sorry, Bash,' I say just as quietly. 'You've been such a good friend to me, and I'm sorry for everything that happened. I hope that we can forget about it and start afresh.'

Something flashes across his face, like lightning on the horizon heralding an approaching storm. 'That's all I am to you, isn't it? To you, to the whole court. Something to forget. An illegitimate son whose existence is condemned, who will fade from the face of history because the powers that be wish it so. Well Mary-,' he grasps me by the shoulders before I can back away and holds me still as he brings his face within an inch of mine, '-what if I don't want to be forgotten?'

'What are you saying?' I gasp, a shiver of fear brushing my spine. He holds me for a heartbeat, and then lets me go, looking back out over the balustrade.

'Nothing. Don't you go worrying, I'm leaving in the morning. I wish nothing but happiness for both you and Francis. Truly.'

When he turns to leave I want to stop him, but instead I let him go. His receding footsteps on the stone beat against my eardrums, and he takes the fevered heat from my flesh with him. I begin to tremble and I wrap my arms around myself, squeezing tightly as I lean against the wall, wishing I hadn't seen him, frantic at the thought of not seeing him again, of leaving things between us as they are, unresolved. All the touches shared between us, every glance, every kiss, every cautious hope, he can't possibly stay at the castle anymore. The feelings that I've never named will surface every time I look at him, growing despite my every effort to suffocate them, becoming more dangerous with every moment until they are out of my control.

I will go to bed, get some rest, start the new day with my focus where it ought to be, on my husband and my country. I will think of him tonight, but then never again. When he leaves the castle these feelings can go with him.

**Francis**

I thought that I had won, you know. I thought that after our wedding I would pick her up and whisk her off into the sunset to somewhere too beautiful for sadness, where I would kiss her white skin until she quivered and everything but my name was swept from her mind. My wife, my Queen, my love, my _Mary_, why does she turn her face from me? Why does she roll over in the night, curling into herself and leaving me the smooth expanse of her back?

She is so nervous tonight. She wrings her hands and taps her feet, her eyes full of that same faraway expression I have seen so often these past two months, during a time when I should have been granted her full attention. I have held women in the palm of my hand, captivated and entirely in my power, ready to surrender to me everything that they are. I know what it looks like when a world shifts and reorientates itself to find me at its centre. That's how I know that Mary is not entirely mine.

Her ladies know something is wrong, too. I can see them glancing at her from around the room, and Lola hovers around her, never far away, bringing food and refreshments that Mary doesn't touch, dabbing at her neck with a damp cloth. Sweet, compassionate Lola, she glances at me, too, her eyes shy, her smile timid, just asking to be taken from behind as she bends over a chair. She was so kind, so gentle that night we spent together. So eager to be loved.

'Be frank with me, son, are there any heirs on the horizon?' Kind Henry claps an arm around my shoulders in a semblance of fatherly affection.

'Not just yet, father. We've only been married two months.'

'Your honeymoon was as expensive investment, Francis, one that I expected would return an heir to the thrones of France and Scotland. And potentially England.' His breath is heavy with wine, but I know better than to think it's just the drink talking. The ability to hold one's liquor is essential for any king.

'I know, and it will happen, but these things take time.'

'Good man. I'm glad that you're aware of your obligations. I got a little worried that your mind wasn't on impregnating your wife when I saw you making eyes at her lady-in-waiting over there.' He said it in an offhand way, and for some reason that made me angrier.

'Like you're one to talk,' I snap.

'When you already have three heirs to your name you can do as you wish. Until then, I suggest you pay some attention to your wife. She doesn't look well.'

My father has a habit of sweeping in, provoking me, and then moving on before I can even formulate a reply. He demonstrates this now, already halfway across the room and deep in discussion with someone else before I know the conversation is over, leaving me quietly fuming. But he is right; Mary doesn't look well, and if the king has perceived it, others will have too.

'Is something the matter?' I ask when I reach her where she is pacing by the wall. I put a hand to her back, bidding her to stop. She does stop, and even looks at me, but I feel translucent to her.

'Yes, actually, I'm afraid I'm feeling ill.' Her skin is flushed, her eyes feverishly bright. Perhaps she really is ill.

With a sudden feeling of compassion, I lean in and speak softly to her. 'The feast is not for another hour. Perhaps you should go and lie down awhile.'

Her lips purse together and her jaw tightens, like she's clenching her teeth. Not the reaction I was hoping for.

'I think I will. Would you please let my ladies know?'

'Of course. Anything,' I reply to the back of her head as she walks away, her skirts swishing with her pace, the hips beneath them swaying from side to side. There is a stirring within me as I watch her hips, but I quash it immediately. My company is obviously not wanted tonight. Lola approaches me with two glasses in hand, her eyes darting about the room.

'Mary has gone to her room to rest before the feast,' I explain, taking one of the glasses and taking a long, deep drink.

'Of course, she must be so tired after such a long trip home. You must be too.' She blushes and glances down at her feet, her hair falling about her face like waves lapping at a sandy shore.

'I am, but duty calls. How have you been? It must have been something of a relief, to be left at court with no queen to attend.' I smile warmly at her, and she smiles immediately in return.

'It has been… quiet. But I'm glad you've returned. It's just a shame about Mary, I knew she would get a shock seeing Bash here tonight, and I did warn him-'

'Sebastian is here?' The blood drains from her face as my own begins to pound in my head.

'You didn't know?'

'Why is he here? He should have buried himself in the deepest, darkest corner of Europe,' I growl through gritted teeth as I turn to storm through the room, anger in my steps, a roaring in my ears.

Lola grasps at my sleeve, hurrying along behind me. 'Where are you going? What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to find my father.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all once again for following along, I'm tickled pink by the fact that you want to read this. It's probably a bit of a slow first few chapters, but I promise things will start to heat up after this (the story is titled Burn, after all). Happy reading :)**

**Sebastian**

My pain is ground deep into the floorboards beneath my feet, and the walls sigh with the memories of my mistakes. I run my hands over the armchair by the fire, my fingers remembering the raised patterns of the embroidery, saying goodbye. So many hours I sat in this chair over the years. I spent the whole night in it after the first time Mary kissed me, my fingertips tracing my lips, trying to remember the feel of hers. She had tasted of spirits, had been clumsy with them, and the salt of tears had stained her cheeks. A kiss for Francis, a kiss for revenge, a kiss from a woman smarting with the sting of rejection, but a kiss nonetheless. Had she always been as beautiful as she had been that night, with her eyes red from crying and her black dress in disarray? I pick up a book on my bedside table, a book of poetry that falls open habitually in my hands, already open to the page it is always opened to. There rests a flower, transparent with age, and I pick it up delicately with my fingers. Of course she has always been beautiful.

_I peered through the leaves of the hedge, looking for the source of the strangled sobs I could hear from halfway across the garden. There she was, dappled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves, her arms wrapped around her knees as she sat on a bed of trampled poppies._

_'Everyone is looking for you,' I said. Her head snapped up, and she scowled with all the wrath of Scotland._

_'Go away.'_

_'They're going to find you if you keep crying like that.'_

_She jutted out her chin, narrowing her eyes as she looked up at me. 'I am _not _crying.'_

_I shrugged, pushing through the hedge to sit down next to her. 'It sure looks like you are.'_

_She rubbed at her eyes, scrubbing away at the tear tracks on her cheeks. 'Are you going to tell them where I am?' she asked, her voice thick and wobbly._

_'No. I have lessons, so I don't want them to find me either. Are you sad because you're leaving?'_

_She sniffed and traced circles in the dirt at the feet. 'It's not fair. I don't know why everyone thinks a bunch of silly old nuns will be able to protect me better than all the guards.'_

_I nodded solemnly. 'I can fight way better than a nun.'_

_'And King Henry promised me that I could have the new horse in the stables all to myself, and I was going to learn to ride side saddle, like mother does in Scotland.' She sighed heavily. 'I hate the English. They ruin everything.'_

_'Maybe if I kill all the English, you won't have to leave. I can chop off their heads and put them on sticks all around the castle. Then everyone will be too scared to try to kill you.' I chopped at the air with an imaginary sword, fighting foes of leaves and branches until one swung back to whip me in the face. Mary giggled as I rubbed my nose, and I felt bolstered by the fact that I could make her laugh._

_'I don't want you to leave either,' I said, plucking a poppy from the soil and twirling it in my fingers. 'But you can always come back. And we can be friends again.' I offered her the poppy, springing bright and glorious from my grubby hands. 'If you don't forget about me, that is.'_

_She grinned as she took the flower and tucked it behind her ear, a shock of red against the black. 'You're too annoying to forget.'_

_I elbowed her in the ribs. 'Well you have sticks in your hair.'_

I remember how angry I had been when I later found the poppy on the threshold of the front entrance, probably dislodged in the excitement of her departure. At the time, it had felt like a broken promise, like I had been discarded the moment she left. Francis was always the memory she held on to, with all his promise of a future as king and queen of France and Scotland; it would have been easy enough to let me slip away, the dark-haired boy she had played with when Francis was in a temper. But I remember. I want her to remember too.

I steal across the floor with the footsteps of a phantom, barely breathing in case she should hear me in her sleep. I approach her bed, a lump in my throat at the sight of her resting face, and watch her for a moment, transfixed by the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets, by a twitch of her mouth, by the way a wisp of dark hair dances in her quiet breath.

Gently, I place the flower on her pillow, right by her open hand. A part of me wants her to wake, wants to have an excuse to touch her, even if it's to reassure her after frightening her half to death. Perhaps then I could kiss her goodbye, here in the dark where she can't see my face, where she might forget herself, where we could create an alternate universe, a little pocket of time in which who we are outside of this room does not matter. Perhaps we could be nameless, faceless, just two people reaching out for one another in the dark. I balance on the precipice, seeing the drop before me, revelling in the feel of the wind and the sight of the fall, knowing that a slight overbalance will send me plunging down.

She stirs, shifting in her sleep, and I quickly withdraw, pulled by the knowledge that I would never leave if she were to wake. I back away towards the door, unable to take my eyes off of her, praying that I will one day see her again. Knowing that, if all goes to plan, I never will.

I'm ready to leave by the time the pale light of dawn is seeping into the sky and a cold wind blows out the old day to usher in the new. I tighten the girth of my horse's saddle, massaging her neck when she shifts from foot to foot in protest, flanks twitching.

'Steady, miss, easy,' I croon against her coat, the warm, horsey smell of straw and chewed-up grass soothing the turmoil that rumbles just beneath the surface of my chest. My every nerve feels raw, like with one wrong move I will fall apart. I need to get as far away from the castle as possible before that can happen. Tucking a foot into the stirrup, I hoist myself into the saddle, taking hold of the reigns quickly when the horse begins to toss her head.

'Alright then, Lady,' I say softly, continuing to massage her neck as I glance back at the chateau, my eyes scanning the windows and picturing all the sleeping figures tucked away behind them. 'Let's get out of here.'

When one of those figures that should be sleeping detaches itself from the shadows and drifts towards me across the lawn, I should turn to the road, dig my heel into Lady's sides and leave nothing but a cloud of dust. But the memory of her sleeping face holds me in my place, and I watch as Mary approaches, wearing what looks like nothing but her nightgown under a cloak that she clasps tightly around her shoulders.

'Don't go,' she says, a little breathlessly. Her warm, dark eyes are wide, imploring as she looks up at me from within the hood of her cloak, her skin pink with the cold. 'Please, stay. Just a little while, just until I have a chance to try and fix everything. If I can't, then I understand if you want to leave, but please let me try.'

A sense of unease sinks through me, as thick as clotted cream running down my spine. I look down at her, at that face that can carry the powerful fury of a hurricane but now looks so sweet and earnest that I want to pick her up and tuck her into my arms. She may think she's making a request, that I could refuse, but I know the truth. I could never deny her anything.

'As you wish, your grace,' I sigh, dismounting to land lightly next to her. Her eyebrows draw up over her forehead, and I smile as I fiddle with my saddlebags. 'You look surprised. Were you expecting that I would need more persuasion?'

'I've been rehearsing my argument all the way down the stairs.'

I snort. 'You have no idea, do you?'

'About what?'

'About the kind of power you wield.'

'I've been Queen of Scotland since I was six days old, I think I have some idea.'

'That's not what I'm talking about.'

'Then what are you talking about?'

I leave the straps and turn to face her, frustrated with the confusion in her voice. 'I'm talking about the kind of power that can convince a man to remain where he is not wanted, where he is the jilted contender for that which was always beyond his reach. The kind of power that will have him choose to live in shame, constantly reminded of what he cannot have, and an enemy of those he once held dear.'

'It's not a command,' she says softly.

'That's exactly my point. It doesn't have to be. I do not stay by the command of a queen; I stay by the request of a woman.' I turn my attention back to the saddle, gathering it into my arms and lifting it from Lady's back, the rug already hot. Mary is quiet as I do, then she places a hand on my shoulder and my entire body tenses, unprepared for the contact, acutely aware of how close she is to me.

'You don't need to be forgotten, Bash. I never forgot you. Just as I said I wouldn't, all those years ago.'

I close my eyes and swallow hard, reaching for stillness as she removes her hand and turns away, heading back to the world from which she came. She stepped out of it for a moment to meet me in the secret hour before the dawn, to lay her enchantment and give me one last, deadly dose of her opium eyes, to complete the mantle of addiction under which I am so inexplicably bound, and now she darts back out of my reach once again. I remain frozen on the spot, waiting for my emotions to calm, picturing lazy ships on a quiet sea. Finally I take Lady by the bridle and lead her back towards the stables.

**Francis**

'When you are king you will have the power to dictate who remains at court, but until then Sebastian is my son and it is my pleasure to keep him here.' My father massages the bridge of his nose with his fingers, his eyes closed as he gives the impression of being completely uninterested in the conversation.

'He tried to change the line of succession, challenging my birthright and betraying my trust. He needs to be exiled!' My words sound tired even to me; we have been arguing this back and forth for most of the morning, and a good portion of the night before. Not quite the way I wanted to spend my return home.

'And he failed.'

'What's to stop him trying again? His failure might make him more desperate in a second attempt. Who knows what he might risk.'

King Henry sighs loudly, still massaging the bridge of his nose, and then he looks at me. 'I am tired of arguing with you about this. If Bash has any future designs on the throne, I will exile him. I would want proof, mind, concrete evidence, not your insecurities and speculation. He has already been punished for his past wrongdoings, so now I wash my hands of the whole business. Your injured pride is a matter between you and your brother, and I no longer wish to have any part of it.'

I clench my fists by my side, reigning in my anger. If my reasoning makes no headway, my rage will do no better. No sense of responsibility for my comfort has ever possessed my father, so expressing emotion has never made him reconsider. 'So that's it then? That's your final decision?'

'It is. But I sent for Sebastian some time ago and he's waiting by the door, so if you would like to continue venting your frustration, you can do so on him.' With a flick of his wrist he motions to a guard, and he opens the door. Sebastian cautiously enters the room, deliberately not looking at me.

'You sent for me, your grace?'

'I did. Francis thinks you are plotting against him. Kindly inform him that you are not,' King Henry says, gesturing to me with a wave of his hand that clearly says _this is your problem._

Sebastian faces me, eyeing me warily. 'I regret the tension between us and I hope you can believe me when I say that I wish you no harm.

I storm towards him, crossing the stone floor with wide steps, coming to a halt a foot away from where he stands. I see him brace himself, but he doesn't flinch. 'Our father has decided to let you remain at court against my wishes, but don't think that means you're off the hook. I'll be watching you.'

His face is like stone and his eyes glitter dangerously. 'I never wanted the throne, brother.'

'Then you certainly went to extraordinary lengths for something you didn't want.'

'I never said I didn't want anything. My actions were not the result of a desire to be king.'

We stare each other down, neither wanting to be the one that breaks first, but eventually I can no longer endure the things I see in his face. 'If you ever try to usurp me again, I'll kill you myself,' I warn, before finally breaking his gaze and turning away. I need to get out of this room.

'Oh, and Sebastian? Stay away from Mary,' I add, without looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

_**To those who have been waiting, sorry for the wait. Such a busy time of year, as I'm sure it is for everyone. I'll hopefully be more productive over the coming weeks. Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favourites - without you guys, I'm sure I wouldn't have the motivation to continue. Oh, and happy new year :)**_

**Mary**

I expected it to take quite a time to settle back into life at court, but it quickly begins to feel as though I never left. The sense of mild suspicion, of not quite trusting those around me and tensing at the sound of footsteps, settles over me with ease, working its way into long-worn crevices. King Henry continues to makes plans regarding the throne of England, like a big spider spinning a web around me, and I know I am hopelessly caught up in them. I wonder what it would feel like to live a life without a target on my back.

That target feels especially obvious today as I'm following Queen Catherine through the castle. She keeps glancing back at me, making sure I'm still there, well aware of my reluctance. In my defence, she did try to poison me not too long ago. Trusting her is not exactly second nature to me. But she had seemed earnest when she came to me, and I believe her when she says that everything she has done against me was out of a belief that I would bring about Francis's death. Perhaps she is just trying to make amends, now that she's no longer convinced of such an outcome. But I can remember the cloying smell of the poison coating my lungs, the darkening of my vision as it stole the oxygen from the air, and I know I'm right to be wary of her. If Bash hadn't burst in when he did, throwing open the windows and scooping my body from the bathtub, neither she nor I would be trekking down to Nostradamus's rooms now.

I try to shake the memory from my head, but I get stuck on my salvation, on Sebastian's arms retrieving me from the water, on the fear on his face. I had been completely naked, but he hadn't taken advantage of the situation, holding me protectively while averting his eyes, wrapping me in his cloak as soon as I could stand. I manage to shut the memory down, reprimanding myself for straying where I shouldn't. I forbade myself from thinking of him after my first night home. But then I didn't let him leave.

Catherine enters Nostradamus's quarters without knocking, flinging open the door without any care for the poor man's privacy, and he stumbles to his feet at his desk as we enter the room.

'Queen Catherine, Queen Mary,' he says, bowing sombrely to each of us. Catherine waves her hand impatiently.

'Yes, yes, very proper, but the Queen of Scotland has not followed me down here to witness your grasp of formalities. Tell her what you saw.'

Nostradamus always seems to wear an expression of pain, and I wonder, not for the first time, what it costs him for his visions of the future. Is it simply the weight of knowing the cruelties of fate that causes him such grief, or is it something else? I take the seat he offers me, clenching my hands on my lap.

'I have had a vision involving you, your grace,' he says slowly, his voice soft and rasping, like it's rubbing against a rough surface as it rises from his throat. 'One involving blood. I believe someone is plotting your assassination, though as of yet I cannot see who, nor how they plan on accomplishing it.'

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. I am unnerved, but I cannot say I'm shocked. 'Do you know anything else?' I ask.

'Only that the danger is imminent, your grace. I do not know even the outcome of the attempt; the blood may not be yours.'

He says it apologetically, and that makes me sad. He is obviously expecting anger from me for his lack of information, but I realise that I'm not angry with him, not even for the trouble his visions caused so recently. After all, it is not his fault that the future is so unpredictable. He only does the best he can with what he is given. 'Thank you Nostradamus, I'm grateful for the warning and I'll do my best to make the most of it,' I say, rising from my seat.

'I suggest we keep how we came upon this knowledge to ourselves,' Catherine interjects. 'We both know how little faith Francis puts in visions of the future, and Henry might have us burned as heretics. We can say we learned of this plot from one of my spies. There is no guarantee Henry will take me seriously without more information, but he might tighten security around you at least as a precaution.'

'I appreciate your concern, but I'm not keeping this from Francis,' I say firmly.

Catherine raises her eyebrows. 'Do you really think that he will have any sympathy for visions when your belief in them almost cost him his crown and his fiancé? Don't be a fool,' she scoffs.

'He will no doubt think that you are trying to manipulate me, and with good reason, given your history,' I say with all the venom I can muster, coldly staring her down. 'But he will act for the sake of my piece of mind.'

She throws up her hands. 'Fine. Do what you wish. But remember that I did right by you. I warned you about the visions when I could very well have let the future take its course, and I will continue to gather as much information as I can.'

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'I know, and I thank you for that. I'm sorry if I don't take your advice on what to do now.'

For a moment, Catherine seems tired. The expression of derision falls from her face, and without that to distract me I can see the deep lines around her mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor to her skin. This is a woman who has been fighting to stay afloat in a world full of people she cannot trust for a very long time.

'I want us to be on the same side,' she says. 'We both love Francis, and at the very least I think we understand each other.'

'I would like that too,' I reply, not quite managing a smile, but trying.

I leave the room with hurried steps, my skin prickling. Shadows leer from corners, darting about the flickering light of torches to reach out with long fingers and grasp at my ankles. They hiss beneath the sound of my footfalls, which seem to pound out a rhythm in my head as I walk: _run, Mary, run, Mary, run. _Every corner is a potential lurking place for something waiting to spill my blood. And _why_? Why does death want me so badly that it stirs a hatred in people I have never met, or worse, in the people that I have? I know it's silly, to be jumping at shadows as I walk the halls of the chateau, _my home, _based simply on what might be little more than the daydreams of a troubled man. But Ayleigh's face keeps swimming to the surface of my mind_, _her eyes vacant, her hair red with blood, and the memory of Nostradamus's quiet, rasping voice echoes. _You will never go home._

**Sebastian**

If I were a good man, an honourable man, I would turn away now. Everything that has happened up until this point could be tallied up to circumstance, to doing the best I could in an uncomfortable situation. An honourable man would accept the way that things turned out, would leave her sitting by the fountain in the _Cour du Cheval Blanc_, acknowledging that she has a husband who will look after her, that he does not need to know the reason for the look on her face. I used to think that I was an honourable man. But how can I possibly leave her there looking so hunted?

She's draped over the stone like discarded dress, dark hair glistening in the sun, the light from the fountain flickering across the pale skin of her arms as her fingers trace invisible patterns in the water. I envy the sun, envy the way it runs through her hair and kisses her cheeks, the way it so casually lays along the length of her body and shares her warmth. Something stirs within me as I watch her, a heat that begins at the base of my sternum, swelling to make my limbs ache and my throat dry, and I know that I have to approach her now, to let her know I am here. Because I cannot watch her in innocence, and to do otherwise is obscene.

'Your Grace,' I say quietly, and she jolts like a startled rabbit sighting a fox. I imagine what I must look like to her, a dark shape emerging from the shadows of the trees, watching her hungrily.

'Bash! You mustn't sneak up on me like that. You frightened me half to death,' she says, rearranging her dress with her hands.

'I doubt an assassin would stop to greet you,' I reply. The blood drains from her face and I glance around, suddenly on edge, sure she is seeing something that I cannot. 'What is it, Mary?'

She shakes her head, ridding herself of whatever caused her fear. 'I told you, you shouldn't sneak up on me. I'm sorry, I haven't spoken to Francis about you yet. It's been on my mind...'

I sit down next to her and look at her closely and she loses the end of her sentence, letting it dangle unfinished. 'What has happened?' I ask.

She holds my gaze, searching for something, and I feel like she can see all the way through me, like she is laying bare everything that I am to be weighed and measured. It's an unnerving feeling to one that has so much to hide.

Finally, she speaks. 'Nostradamus predicted an attempt on my life.'

It is a struggle to keep the fear those words spark from showing on my face, but I manage as best as I can. 'Does he know when or how?'

She shakes her head. 'No. He just said he can see blood.' She raises her chin and stiffens her jaw, and these little attempts at showing bravery break my heart and remind me that she is still very young. Just a girl, really, trying to see through muddy water, surrounded by crouching monsters with a taste for her flesh. And I know that right now I'm one of those monsters, though my motivations and desires are unique to those around me. But I want to be so much more than another fiend willing to sacrifice her to achieve their own ends.

'No harm will come to you while I'm around,' I say, touching her hand. I mean the gesture to be reassuring, but her eyes widen and she stands up abruptly.

'Thankyou, but I'm sure Francis will find a way to protect me,' she says, fiddling with her hair and looking at the ground. Despite myself, I am provoked by her efforts to distance herself, so I stand as well, enjoying the way my sudden height and proximity causes her to take a few steps back, the blood returning to her face with a vengeance.

'He doesn't seem to be doing a good job so far. As I said before, if I were an assassin, I doubt I would have stopped to greet you, and you wouldn't have seen me until it was too late,' I say.

'He doesn't know about it yet, so he hasn't had a chance to do anything about it,' she replies heatedly.

'So you told me before you told him?' I ask with a smirk.

'I haven't had a chance to tell him yet. I only just found out.' She is getting irritated with me, and I can't help but goad her further, heady with the power of being able to make her drop her decorum.

'I'm sure he has the highest respect for any warning from Nostradamus.'

'He has the highest respect for me, so I'm sure that will more than make up for any scepticism.'

'You're so beautiful when you're angry,' I say before I can stop myself. Because she is beautiful, with her flashing eyes and her stern brows, her wide stance suggesting a readiness for a physical assault, looking up at me with her pride smarting on her cheeks and defiance in the tilt of her neck. I can hear a hitch in her breathing, a quiver that I cannot help but interpret as an invitation, and I raise my hand, gently taking her chin between my fingers.

'Bash, don't,' she says softly, her voice holding a warning, but her eyes defenceless. Defenceless? Is that really how she feels? Is she as helpless in my presence as I am in hers?

With a considerable amount of effort, I drop my hand and sigh heavily. 'No matter how Francis takes your news, know that I'm taking it very seriously. I'll be watching over you. I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe.'

'I know,' she says, still sounding breathless.

I have to leave before I do something that I won't regret, but that she probably will. With a small bow I make my retreat.

**Francis**

Something has gone wrong. I chose my path so carefully, weighing the risks and benefits, calculating that my feelings for Mary and the advantages of being the royal consort of Scotland would bring a future of happiness. But there was a wayward element, something I didn't take into consideration that has sent that future astray and left me in a marriage that might soon mirror that of my father to my mother. I'm not sure that what I'm doing now will help in the slightest, running to Mary with the taste of Lola still on my lips, but God knows I have to do something before everything comes crashing down around my head. We are so newly married and, as my father is so fond of pointing out, still very much childless; now is not the time to take a mistress. But I came upon Lola unexpectedly this afternoon, hiding in a corner in the gallery, looking so forlorn I had to stop. She had been so vulnerable, so earnest in her declarations of love for me, and her lips had been so very kissable.

I knock on my wife's door, and when I'm given leave to enter I do so with my heart in my throat, so sure that she will smell my indiscretions on my clothes, will see the shape of Lola's body imprinted on my arms. But she barely smiles at me before she begins to talk, and it quickly becomes obvious that how I spend my time away from her is far from her mind.

'I am glad you have come tonight, Francis, because I need to tell you something and I would like you to keep an open mind about it and not dismiss my worries out of prejudice,' she says, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, already dressed for bed. I sit opposite her, already knowing that I wont like this conversation, and that bridging the distance between us is a fruitless endeavour tonight.

'I'm listening,' I say cautiously. She looks into the fireplace for a moment, presumably choosing her words carefully, and that seems even more ominous. I'm inclined to forbid the conversation before she even says a word.

'I went with your mother to visit Nostradamus,' she begins. I brace myself, because I have the distinct impression that she is beginning with the part of the story that will anger me the least, and I'm already getting angry.

'And why did you do that?'

'Because he had a vision involving me.'

I run a hand through my hair. 'Don't you think his visions have done enough damage? Why do you insist on giving them your attention?'

'This time it's my death he saw,' she replies softly. I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair, knowing my next words need to be gentle.

'He predicted my death, and I'm not dead. My darling, please don't let this man fill your head with foolish worries. You are safe here.'

Despite my intention not to anger her she gets to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides.

'Francis I am not a fool, and I'll thank you not to treat me like one. Do you think I don't know how terribly wrong everything went last time I listened to Nostradamus? But I know that some of his predictions have come to pass, and the fact remains that I am not safe, not now that I'm a contender for the throne of England, and your father is making no secret of his desire to back my claim.'

I sigh in exasperation. 'Compose yourself, Mary. I'm tyring to have a conversation with you.'

But she wont be composed of course, and the pitch of her voice rises. 'You are so sure that there is nothing in this world that could be more powerful than you, and I know these visions and notions of fate threaten those ideas, but don't let your pride cost me my life, Francis! Even Sebastian knows to take Nostradamus seriously-'

I sit up sharply. 'Sebastian does, does he? And how do you know that?' I ask, trying to keep my temper, but afraid that losing it is a foregone conclusion.

She purses her lips and drops back into her seat. 'He came upon me sitting outside after I found out.'

'And he spoke to you?' Now my voice is the one rising and I'm trying not to interpret the hesitance in her eyes as guilt or shame, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. A thought of my own guilt flashes through my head, but I push it swiftly aside. I am the future King of France. I answer to no one. Not even my wife.

'Of course he spoke to me, I was shaken and he wanted to know if something was the matter. You cannot hold what happened against him, he was only doing as I asked of him. To protect you.'

'If you want not to be treated as a fool, don't act like a fool,' I hiss, and she recoils like she's been struck. There is a pause, a moment of quiet, both of us regretting what has been said and preparing ourselves for the fallout that is to follow. Some of her hair has escaped her braid and it curls around her face like tendrils of a dark and unfriendly plant, promising hidden thorns or leaves that sting like nettles.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and when she speaks again her voice is deliberately calm. 'Sebastian loves you, and if you are wise you will heal the rift between you. Nothing that happened before our wedding was his fault. I hate to see the two of you at loggerheads.'

I get to my feet, sick of hearing her speak Sebastian's name and ready to leave behind this feeling of shame she inspires in me, like I have done wrong and will continue to do nothing but wrong in her eyes. 'I will give your concerns some thought. As the future Queen of France, you should feel safe at your own court. Now I'll bid you goodnight.' I leave the room with much relief, shutting the door on her quiet 'goodnight' and stalking down the hall, wanting to put as much space between us as possible. My pride clouds my judgement, does it? And to tell me how a wise man might act when she speaks of visions and goes about fraternising with bastards who have an eye for the throne. She may find me wanting, but there are others for whom I am more than enough, and that is what I'm seeking tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter went in a direction I kind of wasn't expecting, so let me know if you don't think it's working. There is also a time jump between Mary and Sebastian's pieces that might be confusing, because Mary is headed out riding in both. I'll work on making it clearer, but for now I just wanted to post something. Thanks for reading :)_

**Mary**

There is a beauty in simplicity, a peace. I can lose myself in the back and forth motion of a scrubbing brush. One, two, one, two, one, two, kneeling on the floor by window, the stone warm from the rays of the sun. It has been a long time since I did any manual work, but I used to scrub the floors of the nunnery every morning, working quietly side-by-side with the sisters. I remember how I had objected to it at first, fuming to the Mother Superior that scrubbing floors is beneath the duties of a queen. She had simply smiled at me, the old skin of her face crumpling up around her knowing eyes, and told me about how Jesus had washed the feet of his disciples.

_'__If the son of God deigns it not beneath him to wash feet, I doubt scrubbing a floor should be beneath the Queen of Scotland. Unless you hold yourself to be higher than Jesus.'_

So I had joined the others on my knees the next morning, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows and tying my hair back in a handkerchief to keep it out of my eyes. It had been hard work at first, and my back and hands and knees had ached, but I had grown to enjoy it. I enjoyed the unity of it, of all of us, from the novices to the Mother Superior herself, working together to keep our home clean. And I have never thought a task below me since.

I am interrupted in my musings by a knock on the door, and Greer, Lola and Kenna enter my chambers.

'Mary! What on earth are you doing?' Kenna exclaims, and all three of them pause to stare in horror, as though they have caught me in the middle of something immoral. With a sigh I dry my hands and get to my feet. A queen should never be seen on her knees.

'It's just something I used to do at the nunnery. It soothes me,' I explain, watching as three sets of eyebrows rise.

'They had you scrubbing floors?' Greer asks, clearly offended.

'We all scrubbed the floor. It's just how we began the day.'

'If the floors are dirty I can speak to the servants,' Lola offers, and I shake my head.

'No, the floors are fine.'

'Then why were you scrubbing them?'

'Because I wanted to,' I snap, and I immediately regret my tone when they all glance at the floor, their faces blank. Sometimes it is hard to be both friend and queen.

'We came to dress you, your grace, but you seem to be dressed already,' Lola says after a moment of silence.

'I rose early this morning. I couldn't sleep.' As I speak I look closely at Lola. She is dressed in velvet the colour of red wine, her hair glitters with jewelled pins and more jewels drip from her neck and ears. She looks lovely, particularly lovely. With a smile, I begin to wonder if her heart has finally laid Colin to rest and started looking to someone new.

'That is a beautiful dress, Lola. Are you wearing it for something, or someone, in particular?' I tease, but instead of the blush or smile I was hoping for her skin goes pale.

'I didn't realise dressing nicely was a privilege restricted to royalty,' she says hotly, and then touches her hand to her mouth as though she wishes to put the words back in. There is a silence while all three of my ladies avoid my eyes. The atmosphere feels charged with static, like it does right before a lightning strike, and as I look over them all I regret ever coming to the French court. We were so close such a short time ago, so full of hopes and excitement for what the future would bring us, secure in our friendship with one another, but now there is a rift between us full of unspoken words. There are secrets in our midst, I'm sure of it. Theirs and mine. I wish Aylee were here. Her death has left an echoing reminder that our group in incomplete. Sweet Aylee, I'm sure her simple kindness could bridge the gaps between us all.

'Do you remember when we first arrived here? The way we kicked off our shoes and danced at the wedding?' I say, gripped by a sudden longing for those days, when my biggest worry was whether Francis would like me.

'It feels like a long time ago,' Lola says softly, raising her eyes to meet mine. 'A lot has changed since then.'

'I hope it hasn't changed too much,' I reply. Her face is so guarded, so closed against me, and it makes me sad. I wish I could reach out to her and make her open up to me, to share what she is hiding that has bought about this distance, and I'm about to take her hand when Greer breaks the silence.

'If there is nothing else you need me for, I really need to be getting along.'

I frown at her, taking in her high colour and the fact that she is already edging towards the door. 'Where are you in such a hurry to be off to, Greer?'

'I have a… a dress fitting. Very important, husband hunting and all that. I've got to keep up with the trends,' she stammers without meeting my eyes.

'Of course. Don't let me keep you from your day,' I say, and they respond with curtsies before leaving the room. They leave behind the ache of loneliness and I long for companionship, for someone from whom I can speak openly with, from whom I have no secrets to hide. My mind begins to drift into dangerous waters, irresistibly drawn to wanting the company of the one person who I need to keep my distance from, but I quickly still the thought and decide to go riding. Distraction is my best, and only, resort. Hopefully the thoughts and the feelings that accompany them will ease with time.

As I leave my chambers, two of the guards by my door begin to follow me. I halt and look them up and down. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?' I ask.

'We have been ordered to follow you, your grace, and protect you from any threat that might arise as you go about you day,' one replies. He is a good head taller than me, with light, curly hair and a surprisingly soft voice. The other is also tall, with spotted skin and hunched shoulders.

'And what are your names?'

'I'm Nicolas, your grace, and this is Gilles.' The blonde one, Nicolas, answers.

I nod at them both, and then continue on my way, a small smile turning up the corners of my lips. My relationship with Francis may be askew, but maybe he is finally beginning to listen to me. Perhaps things between us can still be mended.

**Sebastian**

I drag my heavy feet across the ground, my whole body gripped with exhaustion. Lady prances along beside me, her ears pricked forward and her nostrils flaring, eagerly anticipating the hay that awaits her in her stall. Nothing but her good manners are keeping her from racing ahead without me – I doubt I'd have the strength to restrain her if she grew tired of my slow pace. My left arm throbs dully, a steady reminder of what I have done and what still needs to be done. I may have failed this time, but I will succeed. I have to.

The morning is cold and clear, and the ice that dusts the grass warns of the coming winter. My breath mists the air before me as I walk, and the chill, combined with the early hour, should mean that I don't come across anyone bar the odd stable hand. There is nothing I want more than to slip away to bed without having to lie to anyone this morning.

But when I enter the stables the first thing I see is two guards saddling horses, and I curse under my breath. No doubt my arrival will be reported to someone now, and while I am at liberty to spend my nights as I please, with my brother's suspicion hanging over my head any unusual comings and goings are bound to be questioned.

What I am not expecting is for Mary to round the corner an instant later, dressed to go riding.

'Bash!' she exclaims, her hand flying to her chest. For one wild moment her entire face lights up, and the way she looks at me is almost enough for my already weak knees to give way. Collecting herself, she glances at the guards and rearranges her expression into one of calm politeness. 'I didn't expect to see anyone here so early.'

'Neither did I,' I reply, continuing to walk Lady to her stall, my left arm tucked beneath my cloak. I'm doing a rapid mental assessment of my appearance, praying that there is nothing to betray that I might have been up to anything more unusual than a very early morning ride. With another quick glance at the guards, she follows me.

'Where have you been?' she asks.

'Just out and about. It seemed a good morning for it.'

'It's quite early to be riding.'

'Aren't you also going riding though?' For some reason this makes her blush crimson, and she mumbles something about strange dreams.

'I hear you've quite taken it up as a hobby recently, you and your entourage.' I nod in the direction of the two guards, who are watching me suspiciously.

'Only when I have Gilles and Nicolas. Sometimes I have Artus and Robert, and Artus is a very poor rider. That, and they both get anxious about where I choose to go.' Lady sniffs Mary's hair, and she strokes her velvet nose.

'As they should be, when you've been venturing into the bloodwood. Why do you insist on making my promise to keep you safe as difficult as you can?' I say, lowering my voice until it's barely a hiss, wary of listening ears. I undo the girth of Lady's saddle and lift it from her back, wincing as white hot pain shoots through my left arm, gritting my teeth as I force myself not to drop it in response, carrying it towards the saddle room around the corner with Mary on my heels.

'How do you know where I ride?' she asks.

'I have my sources,' I reply, dropping the saddle onto a rack with relief and cradling my arm beneath my cloak. 'I would have thought you would be doing your best to avoid danger after what Nostradamus saw.'

'I have my guards with me.'

'Two men, who look like they are barely old enough to leave their mother's breast. I think they are doing a better job at tracking your movements than they are at protecting you.' As I face her I realise how very small this room is, and how very sheltered from prying eyes. This is as close to alone as I have been with her in weeks, with her new guards always ten steps behind her. The most we've interacted is a glance or a smile across a room.

'Francis assigned them to me after I told him about the vision. I'm sure he chose men he was confident in. He loves me.' Her anxious eyes and a rise in her voice make the last part sound like a question, one that I am the very last person in the world she should be asking. Which of my past wrongdoings has earned me the prison of this girls cupped hands? Her fingers are the bars through which I view the world beyond her, distorting everything, forever reminding me that I am hers. God, what does she want me to say?

'Of course he does,' I say as another sharp jab of pain races up my arm, and for a moment my vision darkens. 'He loves you because you're beautiful and regal and you make an excellent queen. You are a good match for France.' I sit down on the ground heavily without consciously deciding to do so, my head spinning. My concentration is slipping – I need to lie down.

'Bash, what's wrong?' Mary asks, kneeling down beside me and looking me over with concern. She must notice the way I'm cradling my injured arm, because she gently takes it in her hands and stretches it before me. I don't fight her; I'm having enough trouble maintaining consciousness.

'You're bleeding,' she gasps, seeing the red smears on the skin of my hand. She rolls up my sleeve to expose the crude bandage around my forearm, soaked through with blood. 'What happened to you?'

'It's nothing,' I mumble as she slowly unwraps the bandage. 'I've just lost a lot of blood. But Mary, Francis, he loves you wrong,' I say, gripped with a sudden, desperate courage that probably has more to do with my fading consciousness than any real conviction that I should be telling her this. 'I've seen him try to put a leash on your spirit, and it's almost worse than seeing him touch you. I know you're lonely here, that he hasn't visited you at night in weeks. You shouldn't be left lonely. Don't you want to be loved for more than your suitability as a consort?'

She exposes the long, angry gash that runs the length of my forearm, oozing blood over swollen skin.

'How did this happen?' she asks, frantically ripping at her skirts and pressing a wad of material against the wound.

'I did it. It's just deeper than it was supposed to be. It's not important.'

'What do you mean, you did it? It is important!' She grips me with both her hands, her dark eyes wide and frantic. 'Help, Nicolas! Gilles!'

I clap my good hand over her mouth, muffling her cries. 'No, Mary, they can't know. This wound, I did it to myself. I did it for you. Because I love you,' I whisper, aware of the clinking of chain mail and prioritising brevity over making sense. 'I love you because you're wild, and fierce and courageous. Because you can refuse a king, deliver a baby, climb a tree. Because you have the heart of a lioness and the lives of everyone matter equally to you. Mary, I love _you_, not your station.'

I'm not sure what possesses me in the next moment. Maybe it's my light-headedness, or just the fact that she is so close. Mostly it's the way that her eyes are burning, but I take my hand away from her mouth and kiss her. I kiss her hard, adrenaline letting me forget my pain and my weakness, aware of little else but her lips beneath mine, her body so close in this dark room, my fingers in her hair. The kiss lasts barely an instant before she springs away from me like a startled rabbit, just as one of her guards appears at the door of the room.

'Is everything alright, your grace?'

'Y-yes, we're fine, I'm fine,' she stammers, her eyes wide and her chest heaving.

'Is there any reason his lordship is on the ground?' he asks.

'A perfectly good place to sit,' I say drowsily, my vision darkening again.

'Oh, Sebastian, he was… was just checking his boot. Are you all ready to go? I'll follow you out in just a moment,' she says hastily, and the guard hesitates by the door, but she smiles and waves him off and he slowly makes his way back to his horse. She bobs down next to me again.

'I have to go if you want to keep this wound a secret. I wish you hadn't… but that doesn't matter. Is there anyone you can trust with this?'

'My mother,' I reply, putting my head between my knees.

'I'll send for her immediately. And I'll come and find you when I return.' She lingers, her hand on my arm, and I can feel her hesitancy to leave me like this. Dying now, with the memory of her lips still fresh and her concern draped over me like a blanket, would not be so bad.

'Go, Mary. Go before they come looking for you,' I manage to say. 'I'll be alright.'

I hear her take a deep breath before rising to her feet. Her footsteps are the last thing I register before I finally succumb to darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

_I know I said I would go back and fix chapter 5, but I decided to write chapter 6 instead, so I'm sorry for leaving that mess. I'll fix it soon. Thanks to those who have favorited and followed, and double thanks to those who have commented (and especially to those special people who do so for each chapter). Your encouragement keeps me going. Anyway, here's chapter 6. Let me know what you think :)_

I wake to light behind my eyelids and a pain that hammers against my forehead. With a groan, I roll over and dry retch, my empty stomach convulsing. A cool hand smooths my hair off of my forehead and presses a glass to my lips. When the water hits my mouth I'm gripped by an overwhelming thirst, and I gulp greedily, the water tasting like cold sunshine slipping down my throat.

'Careful. Drink slowly, or you'll make yourself sick.'

'How long have I been out?' I ask, the croaking voice that rises from my throat sounding not at all like my own.

'A few hours. You woke long enough to take some water some time ago, but I'm not sure you were fully conscious when you did.'

My mother strokes my head again and I crack my eyelids open just enough to see her sitting by my bed. Her face is calm, but a storm is coming.

'Sebastian de Poitiers,' she says, her voiced hushed as she leans over me, 'please tell me that I didn't find you unconscious on the floor of the stables because you have been dabbling with blood magic.'

I close my eyes again. 'I was unconscious because I did a poor job of bandaging myself up. I imagine you found me because Mary sent for you.'

'Sebastian!'

'I'm too old to be scolded.'

'But not old enough to act with sense. How many times have you renounced the old ways to me? How many times have you insisted that you follow your father's religion?'

'I had no choice.'

'I can think of no possible explanation as to why you would think blood magic is your only choice. For anything.'

_The foreign words rose from my mouth, hissing like water on coals. Ashes and salt fell form my fingers, scattered to the wind as I turned, round and round, calling for forces as old and heavy as the stones beneath my feet, unwilling to move without a suitable incentive._

I blink away the memory, wishing it hadn't been my only choice. 'Do we have to do this now? I'm not feeling particularly chipper.'

'That is exactly why we have to do this now. You put your life in serious danger, and who knows what else.'

I sigh and try to ignore the persistent pain in my head. I know that vague excuses or dismissals will not satisfy my mother, and she won't leave me be until I tell her what she wants to know. 'Nostradamus predicted an attempt on Mary's life.'

Now it's her turn to sigh. 'I should have known she would have something to do with this. I have heard whispers of some sort of threat to her safety, and then of course there are her new bodyguards. But that doesn't explain your actions.'

I close my eyes again, feeling some relief in sharing this burden with someone. 'I went to see Nostradamus myself after I found out.' I clear my throat, trying to rid myself of the dread that clogs up my oesophagus any time I think of what Nostradamus told me. 'He has had another vision that he was keeping to himself. He was fairly reluctant to share it with me, but I persuaded him.' I feel guilty as I say this. My idea of persuasion that day had been to slam the big man against the wall with a knife to his throat.

'What did he see?' my mother asks, her voice soft, encouraging.

'That the assassins will be successful. Mary will die. Unless I can do something to change her fate.'

_There was a humming in the air that rattled my bones and a change in the consistency of the atmosphere that made me feel heavier than before. There was a presence, existing in a dimension not quite the same as my own, flickering through the shadows, unimpressed with having been summoned by a mortal with the arrogance to think he could call on gods. I could feel it, with a sense that was beyond those of sight and sound and touch, like whatever it was reached inside me and took a hold of my heart, sending fear fleeing through my veins and invading my head. It was from a time before words, had watched the creation of human communication and knew all the languages of the ages, but it did not speak. It had no need for speech. In the space of a breath it knew all that I was, all that I would be, and why I had come. I felt I had been ripped open and blasted apart, replaced by a strange mingling of its consciousness and my own, and from the dark, swirling mess that was the memories and thoughts and feelings that made me up came a vivid, shining image. Mary's face._

I open my eyes again and pull myself up into a sitting position, unnerved by the strength of my memories. My mother watches me carefully, her face blank and composed to be so. 'Did you perform a summoning? From one of my books?'

'Yes.'

'Using?'

'Ash. Of oak and bone. And salt. And blood.'

'Your own blood?'

'Not at first.'

_I knew that the being, the presence, was not satisfied with my offering, that the bowl at my feet was not enough to impress. Before the thought had consciously entered my head I had pulled my knife from its sheaf on my belt and pressed its silver tip to the skin of my arm. I realised that the movements were no longer mine, that my hand was acting on no decision of my own as it pierced my skin with the blade and slowly drew it the length of my forearm. My flesh burned as my veins were opened, and I knew the cut was deep, too deep, as the dark red of arterial blood spilled from the slash, falling to the leaf litter in fat drops._

'I had pigs blood from the kitchens, but it wasn't happy with that, so I used my own.'

Suddenly she lurches forward, gripping my shoulder and staring into my face. 'It?' she whispers, her eyes frightened.

'Whatever it was that answered my call.'

Her face unsettles me. My mother is not often afraid. 'Now you listen to me, Sebastian. Mary's fate is not your concern and it is not our place to persuade the gods against certain paths. Nostradamus's vision may or may not come to pass. Do everything you _mortally_ can to prevent it if you must, but stay well away from these forces that you barely comprehend and will certainly never control.'

'I won't let Mary die. Not when I could save her.'

'You won't save her! Blood magic is dangerous, my son, and it will take a price that you do not expect. There is a fine balance in magic that you do not understand. If you buy her life, the old ones will take another, one you value just as much.' She pauses and studies me while I resolutely avoid her gaze, before she begins speaking again. 'Not to mention the fact that your infatuation with her grows ever more perilous. She was here earlier, asking for you. She was almost hysterical. I told her that I would send word when you had woken, but not to visit again. When will you stop putting your life on the line for that girl? It was madness enough when she was you brother's fiancé, now she is his wife. She is _married. _Til death do they part.'

She finally releases me and settles back into her chair. I'm a little surprised I have enough blood left to flush, but I can feel the heat spreading up my neck in response to my shame. I glare across the room, watching the flames in the fireplace, pirouetting like slender dancers clad in tangerine and scarlet. 'You are quite possibly the last person in the world who should be advocating for the sanctity of marriage.'

She frowns, her mouth turning down at its corners and her dark eyebrows drawing together, causing ripples in the skin of her forehead. But she doesn't look angry at my remark. No, that expression is more one of… pity.

'Do not misunderstand me, I am merely speaking prudently. Because I know you, and I know that this is not a life for you. I am aware of what I am to Henry. I am a refuge, a confidant, a reprieve from the expectations of a country, but I know that he does not belong to me. He takes other mistresses, and as much as he might despise Catherine, she will always be his wife, the woman by his side, and I will always stand in the shadows. But I don't think you have any idea how to play on the sidelines.'

After my initial shame flares and dies away her words wash over me, soft and hypnotic, their meaning having as much effect as a breeze blowing over an ocean, ruffling the surface, but feeble against the powerful currents deep below. I keep thinking of the blade sliding through my skin. From that point, my memories grow slippery and elusive. I know I made a hasty bandage and rode home, but I can't quite remember doing it. And how did the ritual end? Did I succeed in bargaining for Mary's life? Did the spilling of my heart's blood to the forest floor achieve anything at all?

'Sebastian, are you even listening to me?'

'No. I have this pounding headache. I think my skull is about to burst open.'

She studies me for a moment, then raises her hand to my cheek with a sigh. 'My stubborn son. Nothing I say will make any difference at all, will it?'

I place my hand over hers and hold it to my cheek. It reminds me of being a boy, of her warm care after an injury or during an illness. Her calm presence beside my bed, bathing my head with a damp cloth, feeding me broths and telling me stories. 'You know that I love you and have the highest respect for your opinion. And I know that you're right about everything. But if I could change the way I feel, I would have done so a long time ago.'

I know my words have made her sad – I can see it on her face – but all she says is 'sleep', before taking her hand away and leaving the room, the door closing with a quiet _click _behind her. I close my eyes with some relief, giving myself over to the pain in my head and my arm and the exhaustion I feel that seems to run all the way down to my bones.

**Mary**

This has been one of the longest days of my life. All of my distraction techniques are failing; I can focus on nothing. The ride I took this morning was a hectic, horrible thing, with my anxiety transmitting to the horse, making him shy at shadows and bolt without warning. At least it made a good excuse to cut it short so that I could go off in search of Diane. I was relieved to find that she had received my message, relayed by one of the stable boys, but incensed by her blank refusal to allow me to see Sebastian.

I don't care what she says about propriety. I'm going anyway.

I move swiftly down the passage, my footsteps light and my chest tight with the fear of being caught. Which is ridiculous, because I am a queen and this is my home and I am free to walk about the corridors. Even if it is the middle of the night and I am on my way to see my husband's estranged brother. In spite of this shaky confidence in my authority, I still used the secret passage out of my room to slip past my guards.

I approach the door with trepidation, and my confidence entirely deserts me when it comes time to knock. The sound my knuckles make against the wood is feeble, a request rather than a demand, and for a moment I hope that he is asleep. But a hoarse voice bids me enter, and with a deep breath I open the door and slip inside, closing it behind me. The room is warm, with coals of a fire glowing moodily in the grate, their flickering burn the only light in the room. He sits in an armchair by the fireplace, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, the orange glow sending eerie shadows coiling about his frame, making him look otherworldly and strangely beautiful.

'You really don't need to keep checking on me,' he says, without looking up.

'Oh. I hadn't heard anything from your mother, so…' I trail off as he sits bolt upright and stumbles to his feet.

'Mary! What are you doing here?' he asks, clearly flustered. He takes a few steps towards me, this dark man, with his ruffled cloths and tousled hair, and suddenly I feel utterly out of place and awkward. This room is so masculine, with its dark colours and stained wooden floors, the furniture heavy and understated. And I am hyper aware of a large bed looming from the shadows at the end of the room, the coverings disturbed, as though recently abandoned. I feel very hot.

'I'm sorry, I should go,' I mumble, my eyes fixed resolutely on a spot on the wall.

'You've come all the way down here at this time of night just to turn around and go back again?' he says, his tone goading me, and I can see a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. 'Don't tell me that you're afraid to be alone with me?'

I square my shoulders and look him in the eye, my pride pushing out my self-consciousness. 'Well, I did come to see if you're alright, after that terrible incident at the stables, but since you are, and since I did as you asked and kept your secret, I think you owe me an explanation.' Without waiting for his reply, I walk past him and take the seat by the fire opposite the one I found him in. He follows me, retaking his chair, and we sit in silence for a few moments, my embarrassment reclaiming my tongue as I stare resolutely into the fire.

'Thank you for what you did. I think I probably owe you my life,' he says slowly.

'You've saved mine before. I would like you to explain why I had to, though. But first I would like to know if you are completely out of your mind,' I say in a rush, wanting to get the words out before I lose my nerve.

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. 'Possibly. But in what context are you referring?'

'You kissed me,' I say bluntly, still not able to look directly at him and angry at the blush that is claiming my cheeks. 'And you said all those things you did. I suppose you were quite delirious with blood loss, but I'm _married_.'

'So I've heard,' he mutters.

I shoot a quick look at his face and have to glance away again, my throat tight with all the things I want to say in response to the pain I can see there. 'I should never have kept you from leaving.'

'You probably shouldn't have.' He gets to his feet, crossing the room, only to return a moment later with two glasses in hand. He hands me one and then collapses back into his seat. 'Scotch,' he says as I sniff the amber liquid suspiciously, the fumes strong and heady. 'A little something from your home.'

I take a sip and I wince as it burns my mouth, but the warmth it leaves behind is pleasant. I have had it before, of course, but never very much of it. Sebastian grips his glass with both his hands as he stares into the coals, as though holding on for dear life, and I get the feeling that this is not his first glass of the night.

'I can't leave now though, Mary, not with your life in danger,' he continues.

'Francis still doesn't like the fact that you're here,' I add, more to have something to say than to contribute any new information. I'm fairly sure he knows Francis's feelings on the matter.

'He's no doubt trying to find a way to have me exiled,' he replies, taking a gulp of scotch and looking at me intently. 'I'm surprised I haven't been tried for treason yet, really, because I'm sure that every time I look at you my whole heart is in my eyes.'

I want to look away, but I can't. There is a hitch in my breathing, a tremble, and a heat that has spread from my cheeks to envelop my whole body. There is an ache in my chest, like being incredibly thirsty, but somehow deeper, darker, and my fingers tingle. And I can see what he means as he looks at me, the way that his eyes soften and his brows contract, as though the sight of me brings him both joy and sorrow, and he is trying wrap me up and pull me close with his eyes alone. It makes me feel… naked, like the layers of cloth that bind me, of undergarments and petticoats and corsets and skirts, are as fragile as moth wings. I feel like I can see his heart in his eyes. And I know that no one has ever looked at me like that before.

I stand abruptly, knocking the chair back in my haste. 'I'm glad to see you're feeling better. I think I'll go now,' I say, and he stands as well. I draw a shaky breath as I realise that he has placed himself between me and the door.

'Francis doesn't deserve you,' he blurts out. I edge around the chair, recognising the reckless gleam in his eyes, the same way he looked before he kissed me the first time, down by the lake. I have to remind myself that I kissed him first. 'If he sees fit to leave you lonely in a foreign land while he spends his time with others, he deserves to lose you.'

The shock of his words makes me pause in my retreat. 'What?' I ask.

His whole demeanor changes, his eyes widening, his stance softening. 'Mary-'

'Don't Mary me! Who is he spending his time with?'

'I didn't mean-'

'Damn it, tell me, Sebastian!' I demand, the tone of my voice a pitch or two higher than normal. 'Has he… has he taken a mistress?'

His shoulders slump. 'I don't know anything about it, Mary.'

It takes a phenomenal amount of effort to pull myself together, to put what happened between us a moment ago out and this newest revelation out of my mind. 'Thank you for the drink. I think I'll take my leave.' He doesn't stop me as I all but sprint to the door, feeling the fragile bindings that are holding me together already beginning to fray by the time I reach it. It isn't until after I have shut the door that I realise that I never even found out what happened to his arm.


	7. Chapter 7

**Francis**

It's the smell of her breath that breaks me, in the end. A warm, musky smell, it perfectly matches the earthy swell of her breasts as she breathes in and out, and the way her lips darken after they've met with mine. I fill my lungs as I hold her warm body, our damp foreheads pressed together. I never meant for it to go so far, but it's so easy with Lola, so simple, going to bed is just a natural progression.

'I'm sorry,' I say, even though I'm not, not really.

'I know,' she replies.

'I couldn't help myself.'

She opens her eyes. 'I'm glad you couldn't.'

I run my fingers up and down her arm, chasing goose bumps across her skin. 'I don't want to hurt Mary. I promised her that I would be committed to her. I have to try and make our marriage work.'

She raises herself up and props her chin on her hand. 'I don't want her hurt, either. She's my friend and I care about her. But I care about you, too. And you always sound so tired when you talk about her.'

'I guess I am tired.'

'Tell me about it.'

I slip my arm out from under her and roll onto my back with a sigh. 'Sometimes I feel like I'm singing a lullaby to a viper. If I can hit the right notes she's peaceful, beautiful, elegant, but I can never forget that she's got a dangerous bite. She was ready to take everything from me, to strip me of my inheritance and marry my brother, and she very nearly did. I thought our marriage would remake us, unite us, but I feel more distant from her now than I ever have.'

Lola is quiet and still as she listens. She takes my hand. 'You love her.'

'I don't know. Maybe I don't know how to love her. God knows, I've tried. But we are constantly working against one another. Sometimes she feels more like another obstacle than my greatest supporter.' The words come easily, and as guilty as it makes me feel to be talking about to my wife to my, well, to my _mistress, _I hadn't realised how much I needed to talk about it. I feels nice to be able to air this burden with someone I trust. It feels nice to have someone _to _trust.

'And you are stronger united. You can't be feuding with your Queen if you intend to stake a claim on the throne of England,' she says softly, and I press my lips into her hair.

'You wouldn't prefer to see us estranged?'

'Not if it would do you harm. You are first the King of France, second Mary's husband, and third, my… my lover, if I can call you that. I am grateful for whatever you have to give me. We can keep what is between us a complete secret.'

As she talks, I sit up and take her face in my hands. 'You have no idea how much that means to me,' I whisper, brushing my lips against her forehead. 'You are the sweetest, kindest, wisest, most beautiful girl, Lola.'

She smiles serenely, but sits up and moves away from me. 'I should probably go. Someone might notice I'm not in my bed.'

I catch her wrist in my hand. 'Please stay the night.'

'I thought we just agreed that we want to avoid becoming a scandal.'

Her skin is as soft as velvet and I nuzzle her neck, breathing her in. 'We can worry about that tomorrow. Tonight, you stay.'

'Francis…'

'Please?'

She sighs, and kisses me. 'Okay.'

**Mary**

When I eventually sleep, I'm haunted by dreams in dark colours that jerk me awake multiple times throughout the night, feverish and with a racing heart. They fade beyond my recollection as soon as I open my eyes, only to continue unabated as soon as sleep returns. Eventually I can't take any more of it, and I throw back my damp covers. I dress quickly and make an attempt to pin up my wild hair, but I abandon the mirror before long to escape the sight of my puffy eyes. It is probably not the best state to be venturing out in, but I'm long past caring at this point.

As I enter the corridor I'm suddenly reminded of the guards stationed by my doors, and I hurry out with my head down, hoping they won't notice my disarray. They follow, of course, but at a further distance than they usually would, and I'm embarrassed by the thought that it might be intentional, that they might have noticed my need for space. How much longer must I be constantly watched? At what point do I concede that Nostradamus must have been wrong? The hallways are dark in the cool light of the dawn, and I'm reminded of my arrival here by the feeling of being unwelcome that seems to settle over me, as though the walls have turned on me. Because while this may be my home now, it is Francis's home first and foremost. Without the union between us I would have no place here.

And now his door looms before me, and for some reason I feel even more unsure than I did knocking on another door only a few hours before, despite the fact that I will find my _husband_ behind this one. He doesn't answer at my knock.

'Francis?' My voice wavers, and I clear my throat. 'Francis?' I say again, louder this time, and I hear a quiet scuffling, almost whispering, followed by footsteps and the click of the lock.

'Mary, what are you doing here?' Francis peers out at me through the door, which is open no wider than his face.

'I'm your wife. I came to see you,' I say, pushing a stray lock of hair back behind my ear.

'But so early in the morning?'

'Yes, I know it's early, I'm sorry. But I heard a rumour, a horrible rumour that I think has been started because we've been a little… distant from one another lately. So I just wanted… could I come in? I don't really want to have this conversation in the hallway…' I move towards the door, expecting it to open, but Francis doesn't budge. A memory begins to corrode away the edges of the moment.

'Now isn't really a good time, Mary-'

Disbelief freezes me on the spot. I've been in this exact position before.

'-maybe this isn't a conversation to be having first thing in the morning-'

'Who is in there with you?' I say quietly, my voice calm. Francis glances at my guards.

'What are you talking about? I'm the only one here-'

'Then why won't you let me in?'

'Because I'm not going to open my door just because you demand it-'

'Is it Olivia? Or have you found yet another bed warmer?'

'Mary! Not now!' Francis hisses. My eyes burn.

'Not ever. You promised me, Francis.'

'Send your guards away, and then we can talk-'

I draw myself up and take a step back from the door. 'Don't presume to give me orders. We are done here.'

Francis calls after me, but I don't stop, don't turn, I'm all but running now. I can't let him see me cry, not now, not when I should have known all along, when he fooled me into believing he was anything other than that boy who blocked me at his door before. He is his father's son, just another monarch who takes what he wants when he pleases, and I want to put as much space between me, that door and whatever it is that lies behind it as I possibly can.

I'm gasping by the time I make it to the stables, and I take a minute to compose myself, to be still before I enter. I will my breath to slow, my blood to cool, my heart to cease aching so terribly, and as I do I suddenly realise that my guards are new. It makes me feel incredibly lonely, that even my guards, the figures I have grown so used to following and watching me, sharing my every moment, are strangers.

'I don't think we've met before,' I say, a little sheepishly. I have been incredibly self-absorbed this morning. 'What are your names?' They both look quite dishevelled, with untidy hair and uniforms askew. One mumbles something that sounds like 'George'.

'And you?' I ask, smiling at the other one. A dark smudge of stubble shadows his jaw.

'He is mute, your Grace,' the other answers.

'Oh. Well, it is nice to meet you both. You have an interesting accent, are you from the south?' He shrugs non-committedly, and I hold onto the hope that they become a more expressive a pair as the sun climbs in the sky. 'I hope you don't mind going out so early in the morning.' When I don't even get a shrug this time, I give up on making small talk. 'Since this is your first time tailing me I won't report anything to your captain, but in the future I expect you both to be clean-shaven and neatly presented,' I say with a frown, before continuing on to the stables. Later, I may go and find out why this particular duo have been assigned to me in such a state of disarray. Now, I want to ride. Fast.

**Sebastian**

It's almost dawn when I finally abandon my armchair and my glass. After a night of little sleep and too much drink, my thoughts are frayed and dart about my head like dragonflies. I catch myself dreaming while standing, lurking on the edges of my subconscious while staring into space. I splash water on my face, hoping the cold shock of it will jerk me back to the land of the living, but minutes later I'm still clutching the basin, staring into the mirror as water drips from my face and hair, my stomach lurching, too unsteady on my feet to move. Scotch and blood-loss are probably not an advisable combination. My vision darkens around the edges, like I'm about going to pass out again, and my face in the mirror wavers before my eyes.

Then the image in the glass begins to shift, warping until it no longer resembles a face at all. Shapes emerge where there was nothing before, three figures that begin to take a human form, two standing over another on the ground. They are murky and far away, like I'm watching through a dirty window, but they grow more detailed as I watch, more distinct. The standing figures are men and I don't recognise either of them. One of them appears to be holding something, no, cleaning something. A sword. The other is heaping leaves and dirt over the figure on the ground. A figure with long, dark hair.

The basin crashes to the floor, slopping water down my legs and halfway across my room. I drop to my knees and dry retch, my empty stomach convulsing, my head spinning, my hands trembling with sudden terror. I can feel a presence around me like I could in the bloodwood, a darkening of the shadows in the room, a prickling on the back of my neck, a sense that the very air is not quite what it seems. This is what my blood has bought me, I know it like I knew I needed to draw the blade across my arm. It's an early warning. The assassins are in the castle.

**Francis**

I am on my way to mass when I am accosted in the hallway. My arm is taken, caught in a hard and unapologetic grip that tugs me from my course, forcing me through a doorway to come face-to-face with my brother.

'Where is Mary?' he says urgently. I wrench my arm away and glower at him.

'Why is that any of your business?'

He takes my shoulders and holds me in place. 'Francis, listen to me. She's in danger. There are two men in the castle who are here to do her harm and we need to find her.'

I eye him carefully before responding. 'What do you know?'

'They are from across the channel. Whether they have been sent by Elizabeth or someone else I don't know, but I do know they are her to kill her.'

'And your source? Are they reliable?'

'Beyond the shadow of doubt.'

He resolutely holds my gaze as I consider his claims. The apparent immediacy of the threat and the lack of detail bothers me, but I can't see what he would have to gain from crying wolf. Is he trying to lure me off somewhere to do away with me? It's not like I'm some defenceless kitten. He can try. 'Alright. Follow me,' I say finally.

Sebastian walks swiftly as we head towards the watch house, and his haste begins to make me anxious. Whatever is going on, he certainly thinks that there is cause to hurry. When we arrive the captain steps out to greet us. He is a solid man, short and hairy with thighs as thick as tree stumps.

'Your Royal Highness, I was about to send someone to find you,' he says.

Dread curls its icy hand around me. 'What's happened?'

'The men I allocated to tailing Queen Mary, they had an incident of… overindulgence last night. I personally apologise for them, they are being dealt with presently. I sent a replacement pair to the Queen, but they are having a great deal of trouble finding her. Do you have any idea...' he trails off, looking from my face to Sebastian's, no doubt seeing matching expressions of alarm.

'Your men haven't found even a hint as to where she might be?' I lower my voice, wary of who might be listening.

'Her horse isn't in the stables, but I'm not sure where she would have taken it. Perhaps your Highness might have some idea-'

'She's in the bloodwood,' Sebastian interrupts, and we both turn to look at him.

'How would you know that?' I ask after a pause.

'Because she's been riding there a lot recently. Ask her regular guards, they'll tell you. She goes when Gilles and Nicholas are with her.'

I don't know if he is trying to stir me up with his knowledge of what goes on in the chateau or if he really is just trying to be helpful. To me it seems like he is paying an inordinate amount of interest in the comings and goings my soldiers. But Sebastian has always payed attention to those sorts of things, I remind myself. Mary is the priority right now, not my brother's potential scheming. 'Of all the places she could go, why would she go there?'

'Her life here sometimes makes her feel suffocated and the bloodwood has a way of making everything fade away until there is nothing left but you and whatever is in those trees. That, and she's reckless when she's upset.'

How does he know Mary is upset? Does he know about our confrontation this morning? What else does he know?

'Have we reason to fear for the Queen's safety, your Highness?' the captain asks.

I take a deep breath before answering, steadying myself for what is to come next. 'Yes. I have information that an assassination attempt is underway. We need to find her. Have your men scour the grounds, and send some into the bloodwood.'

Sebastian grasps my arm. 'I'll go.'

'No.'

'Francis, you know I know the bloodwood better than any of your soldiers. Please, I beg you, let me find her. For you.'

I want to say no so badly. The word balances on the tip of my tongue. Sebastian, racing off into the forest to play the hero, rescuing my wife, _my _wife, from her would-be assassins and carrying her home in his arms. The only thing I can think of that would be worse is if he didn't bring her back at all. But Mary's words from our recent fight are raging in my ears, so relevant I should almost be suspicious that this whole thing is just a set up so she can prove a point. _Don't let your pride cost me my life._

'Go then,' I say finally, feeling like I have conceded something that I will never get back. 'But go now, quickly. And for Christ's sake, bring her back.'

**Mary**

I know how deep in the woods I've come by how closely the trees grow to each other. They reach from the ground in clusters, fighting each other to reach the sun through the canopy, their trunks dark and covered in moss. As I'm becoming aware of how deep in the woods I am, I'm beginning to wonder why my guards haven't insisted I turn back yet. We are much further than I've ever ridden before. Even Nicholas and Gilles would have begged me to return by now. I ease the horse from a canter to a walk and glance behind me at my trailing guards. They slow their horses in response.

'Where do you think we are?' I call to them.

The taller one, George, smirks at me. 'In the woods, your Grace,' he says, and unease prickles at the back of my neck. Bash would be so angry with me, I think suddenly. I'm deep in the woods with two guards I've never met, with no idea how competent they are. What if they are both useless fighters? And I've been relying on them to keep track of where we are, plunging headlong into the trees with no concern for getting home. What if they are terrible woodsmen? What if I can't find my way back?

I reign my horse in and turn to face them in the saddle. 'I think it's time we were headed back,' I say. The sense of unease grows as neither of them makes the slightest move to turn around. A dark, cruel smile begins to spread across the mute one's face, like spilled wine on a carpet, and his hand moves to his hip.

'I'm sorry to inform you, your Grace,' George drawls, and I realise that he is drawing his sword, 'but you won't be going back.'


	8. Chapter 8

*****mature content warning - sexual themes*****

I can barely hear the hoof beats over the pounding of my heart, but I can feel them reverberating through my body as I urge my horse faster. We weave between the still and silent trees, and the quiet seems a stark contrast to our mad, directionless charge. I don't know where we are, I don't know where we are going, all I know is that we have to go _fast_ and god forbid we falter, because two pitiless men are close on our heels and they carry my death in their hands. My horse is smaller and more agile so right now we have the lead, but I can hear them getting closer, their voices calling out to one another, egging each other on. The woods are a blur of colour and I can barely register what lies ahead of us before we pass it by, I merely duck away from branches and hold on tight. We jump a fallen log, my horse stumbles and panic freezes my lungs for a terrifying moment as it seems like we are going to fall, before the horse catches itself and keeps going. The trees claw at my face and arms and hair, as though the whole forest is in cahoots with the men chasing me, but I barely feel it.

We plunge though a shallow, icy stream and the spray soaks my skirts, but my horse crosses it easily and climbs the soggy bank on the other side without a hitch. I glance back; they are heavier and their horses are larger, so hopefully the mud will slow them down a bit more, even if for just a fraction of a second. They've already dropped back a few paces than they were before and we have left the stream behind by the time they reach it. I feel a flutter of hope. We could outrun them. I might survive this yet.

I am overcome by a sharp, blinding pain as my head is snapped backward, and white spots flash across my vision. I fall, flung from the saddle by a branch to my head, and I land on my back. The air is snatched from my lungs. I gasp, pain burns like fire thorough my limbs and I can't breathe, oh god, I can't _breathe_, my lungs are punctured balloons, I can't move, but I have to get up,_get up, they're coming!_

There is a commotion of hooves and leaf litter as my pursuers reign in their horses, and they dismount with two great _thumps. _I am sucking tiny mouthfuls of air back into my lungs and my heart is beating so hard I'm afraid it will burst as I helplessly grasp at my surrounds, trying to drag myself to my feet, or just away from them. I find a log and wrap an arm around it as I hoist my torso off the ground and drag my knees towards me. Something pushes firmly down on my head. A hand.

'Don't get up just for us, your Grace,' a voice sneers. 'We like you better on your knees.'

**Sebastian**

Tracking has never felt so excruciatingly slow before. I want to plunge headlong into the trees, to fly across the ground as fast as my horse can go, and then faster still, and it's taking all of my self-restraint to keep myself from doing so. Speed won't help if I never find them, and so I stop, check the trail, follow the crushed foliage and hoof prints, and all the while the seconds slip away no matter how tightly I try to hold onto them. Too much time is passing, damn it, who knows what might be happening. I try not to follow such thoughts or I will work myself into a panic, but every moment I'm fearing for her, for her terror, her pain, for whatever she could be suffering, and I curse Francis for wasting time, the Guard Captain for allowing the assassins anywhere near Mary, the woods for being so enormous, myself for not being quicker, more discerning, a better woodsman, for fumbling with the reigns here and tripping over a tree root there. And Mary, for going stampeding into the bloodwood with two men she doesn't know.

After an eternity, when I am far deeper in the woods than I would ever wish Mary to be, I come across something that makes my blood run cold. The tracks change. Up until this point it looked like they were merely riding in the woods, fairly consistent in their direction, the pace fast but not panicked. But what I see now is a churning up of the ground, as though they suddenly dug their heels in, and the trail becomes haphazard, swerving around trees and crashing through undergrowth. The three riders are traveling less in a group and darting about more, as though trying to take short cuts to head the leader off. Whatever happened here gave Mary cause to run, and the assassins are in pursuit.

Fear is a distraction, and panic is the enemy of focus, but I am beyond reasoning now. I urge Lady into a gallop. She bolts forward, her ears pressed back against her head in response to my anxiety, and I bend low to her neck and press my heels harder into her sides. My thoughts are no longer coherent, all I know is that I need to get to Mary, _now. _And then I feel it, the same presence as this morning by the basin, something lingering at the corners of my mind, a raw, primitive fear, mingling with my panic for Mary but separate. This fear is instinctive and without reason, attached to no knowable object, and I feel it deep down in my bones. All thoughts flee my mind like startled birds and suddenly I leave the trail completely and strike out in a different direction, still operating at a gallop, but trusting Lady to find her way through the trees. I tweak our course as we go without thinking, concentrating on speed and trusting our direction to whatever it is that guides me. I slow our pace to cross a stream, and as we are picking our way through the stones and mud the presence leaves me and my clarity is gone. I reign Lady after we cross the stream to catch my breath and recollect myself after what just happened. Her flanks are heaving and damp with sweat and I rub her neck as I search desperately for some sign that three riders have recently passed this way, but then I see them. I'm standing at the top of a gentle incline, and below I can see two men approaching one dark-haired girl. Mary holds a sword out before her, and one of the men also has one, but the other one is unarmed and limping. I have the high ground. This will be swift.

The unarmed one runs when the sound of hooves alerts them to my charge, and the other one fumbles to change direction and face this newest threat. His mistake is turning his back on Mary, who makes a swing for his sword arm. She strikes true, and the man screams in pain before I fell him with one sure slash. His body hits the ground with a heavy thud. I take the other one down as he runs towards his horse in a flurry of steel and blood and I reign Lady in as he falls. He twitches and gurgles for a few moments before his body is still. I take a moment to steady myself as I watch him die and try to calm my racing heart. Two more lives I have stolen before their time. For a moment, I disregard everything I had to kill them for. Who were these men? What drove them to this death in an attempt on the life of the Queen of Scotland? They were boys once, infants. They had mothers, fathers, maybe wives and children. And now they will never speak another word or draw another breath. Because of me.

I dismount and peer at the squat face, the stubble, bushy eyebrows and a nose like a mushroom, before passing my hand over his eyes and closing them. My immediate concern is the living, not the dead. When I look back to where Mary was standing, I see the discarded sword, but no sign of her.

'Mary?' I call. There is no reply, but I can hear her gasping and I follow the sound. She is sitting behind a tree, out of sight of the bodies, her arms wrapped around herself as she gasps for breath. I can see that she's trembling and I begin mentally unpacking the contents of my saddle bag for something to help with shock. I bob down beside her.

'Mary, it's okay, it's me. I'm not going to hurt you.' Her trembling grows more violent as I stretch out my hand, but she takes hold of it. 'Easy now,' I croon, as though to a spooked horse, and I creep up next to her, sitting down in the leaf litter. 'Are you hurt?' I brush hair away from a gash on the side of her forehead that is slowly seeping blood. 'That looks painful.'

'I fell f-from the h-horse...' The word becomes a sob, and she is crying and gasping, caught somewhere between terror for what she's been through and relief to be alive. Each gasp seems powerful enough to rent her in two, so I put my arms around her and hold her tight in response to some vague notion that I can hold her together.

'It's okay, Mary, shh, you're safe now, you're okay,' I chant, though it's probably more for my own comfort. The relief washing through me is a heady drought and I begin to believe it, that's she's safe, that I reached her in time, that I can be rid of the dread I have been carrying like cold porridge in my stomach. I want to laugh or punch something or leap into the air, but instead I press my face into her hair and hold her tightly. God, she smells good, even covered in mud and the sweat of fear.

She turns her face up to me and I barely have time to take in her tear-bright eyes before she's kissing me. Hard. I cannot breathe, I cannot think, I am rendered completely helpless by her lips, by her scent, by the sweetness of her breath and the way it quivers in her mouth. All I can do is kiss her back. My hands are full of her, of her softness and her warmth, and they are on her waist, her back, her thighs, searching until they find her skin, rippled with goose bumps beneath her skirts, and her arms are around my neck, dragging me in.

'I'm burning up,' she gasps against my mouth. 'You're burning me up.'

Then I'm leaning into her, onto her, she's on her back and my body is pressed against her and my lips are on her white neck, on her collar bone, on the soft skin at the top of her breasts, and she arches her back and pulls me closer still. Her skirts are around her waist and her bodice comes away in a ripping of fabric and I'm tearing at the laces of her corset like some kind of wild animal. Her breasts, oh god, rose-pink nipples against cream, hard against my tongue, and she's gasping and sobbing, hands in my hair as I take everything I have wanted so terribly for so long.

I'm tugging at my breeches with one hand, my other hand on her, on_ her, _and as she's gripping me with her legs when I pause. This is wrong, isn't it? Though I can hardly remember why. Then she gasps my name and I am lost.

Afterwards, we lay in silence for a moment that warps and behaves in a way that has me questioning the very nature of time. It seems longer than the entirety of my life before now, and yet I know it is passing too quickly. I hold her to my chest, her dark hair draped across me and her face turned away, trying to embed the way her breath on my skin feels into my very bones, and waiting for the regret that will surely come and desecrate this sacred ground. I wish she would look at me.

We both begin to tremble, this time with cold, but still she doesn't move. Maybe she is as aware of the fragility of this moment as I am, dangling in a place between places, a time between times, straddling the worlds of _before _and _after. _It is safer here in nowhere than it is in _after_, and we cannot go back to _before_. I would like to hide here in this moment forever, the foliage of the woods sheltering us from the full knowledge of what we have done.

Finally she stirs, sitting up with her back to me, gathering her torn bodice to her chest.

'We should head back,' she says quietly, her voice hoarse. I follow her lead and sit up, struggling into my breeches and straightening my clothing as best as I can.

'Of course. You must be freezing,' I say, stupidly, wishing for the eloquence of the poems in the book by my bed. Though even if I were a poet I'm not sure I would find the words I need. 'Mary, I-' I begin, but she winces away from me, pressing a hand to her face.

'Don't,' she pleads. 'Don't say anything. Please. Let's just go home.'

'We don't have to go back,' I suggest, trying to catch her eye, my hands itching to reach out to her. 'We could go… somewhere else.' It's funny how difficult it seems to simply take her hand now, when minutes ago I was…. Well, nothing seemed difficult then.

Her reply is flat, toneless. Resigned. 'We do have to go back. I have to go back to my…. my husband. And to the countries who look to me as their ruler. I am a queen. I will always have to go back.'

So we do go back. It takes a little time to coax our skittish horses back to us, but before long we are mounted and moving through the quiet woods, every step bringing us closer to the reckoning and further from the blissful oblivion of the forest floor. There is nothing I want less than to go back. I spend the majority of the ride trying to find the nerve to break the silence that has settled over us, but I can think of nothing to say that will make anything any easier. I won't tell anyone, Mary? You can go back to Francis and your phony marriage and leave me in the woods, where I will dream of you? Would that make you happy? If I took back the heat, doused the flames we have ignited and left you shivering, without me but safely back in the world you came from, would that make everything right? What if I said I love you, Mary? Come with me and we will create the world anew, somewhere far from here, where there are no thrones to contend with, no schemers and no plots, where I can keep you safe. I'll build you a house in a shaft of sunlight and I'll bring you poppies every day. We will make love in the warm, dreamy mornings and fill our days with gentle peace, with kisses on your cheeks and light shining in your hair, with smiles on your lips. And I will never, ever, leave you alone at night.

I reign Lady in when we finally break free of the woods to find the château looming large before us, beautiful and demanding in the golden light of the late afternoon, and Mary follows suit. We sit for a few minutes, just staring up at it, and I can't seem to get enough air into my lungs. I feel as though the air is thicker here, and will continue to get thicker the closer I get, until I eventually suffocate. A breeze rushes by, back towards the wood, running its cold fingers through my hair, luring me back the way I came.

'I'm not sure I should go any further,' I say softly.

Mary is quiet for a moment, and I almost think that she agrees with me, but then she says 'please come with me, don't make me do this alone.'

With a sigh, I nudge my horse onward.

**Francis**

It's been hours, almost an entire day, and there's been no news. I've got soldiers combing the château and grounds, the town, the wood. And not a single shred of evidence has turned up to indicate where she might be. I feel so useless, enshrined in the throne room and entrusting her rescue to other. I should be out there with them. But exposing another monarch to whatever enemies are responsible for Mary's disappearance won't help anyone. Or so my mother tells me.

'Francis, sit, eat,' she orders, motioning to the excessive amount of food on the table that has been brought for my solitary self.

'I can't.'

'You have been pacing that same length of floor for an hour. If there were any clues to Mary's whereabouts there, you would have found them by now.'

'This is not a joke,' I fume, storming towards her, and she holds her hands up defensively.

'I know it's not, and I'm taking it very seriously. But what good will you be to Mary if you're weak from hunger? You need to be sharp and vigilant when making decisions in troubled times. So sit. Eat.'

I glare at her for a moment, then do as she bids. I'm being served stuffed quail when the doors burst open and Greer comes racing in, her face flushed. She pauses to take in the scene, and I'm immediately embarrassed. What must she think of me, casually feasting like all is right in the world? I stand quickly.

'I'm sorry to interrupt, your Grace, but she's back! She's safe,' she says excitedly.

'Thank heavens. Where is she? Is she hurt? What happened?' I say, relief flooding through me, allowing my tense muscles to relax.

'I don't know anything yet, I just saw them riding across the lawns. Follow me.'

My mother and I follow Greer through the halls at a run, and emerge outside into the golden light of late afternoon. As my eyes adjust, I pick out two horses not so far away, and Mary being helped to dismount. And who is lifting her from the saddle? Sebastian of course. He lowers her to the ground, but then she appears to stagger, like her legs won't hold her. Without hesitation he scoops her up in his arms and carries her towards us. I know I'm supposed to be grateful to him right now, but I want him away from my wife and out of my sight as quickly as can be achieved.

I run towards them, gravel crunching beneath my feet, and when I reach them I take Mary from him. For a moment it almost feels like he isn't going to relinquish her, but we lock eyes and he lets go, his arms falling limply to his side.

'Thank you,' I manage to say, before carrying Mary back towards the castle.


	9. Chapter 9

**Mary**

I wake. Oh god, why do I wake? In the shadowy haven of dreams I could escape the torment of this moment. There was no guilt, no regret, no notion of sin. There was only what I want. But the full force of what happened yesterday comes crashing down on me as soon as I begin to regain consciousness. I squeeze my eyes tightly against the morning light, as though trying to keep the images in my head from escaping through my eyelids. Did I reach for him first? Did I push us from the high cliffs of morality and send us plunging own? Even if I didn't yesterday, I did in the very beginning. When I kissed him by the lake, so drunk and silly, I never dreamed I'd wind up here. I unleashed an unstoppable force over some petty jealousy. If I hadn't kissed him then, would we still have found ourselves on the forest floor? A tiny, savage voice in my mind whispers that it was worth it, was worth the guilt and shame of today. I want to quash the notion, but it strikes trues to my very core, finding assent in the parts of me that ache from where he has been. The love I've known with Francis has been nothing like this. Just remembering sends heat through my body and I want to say his name aloud, like a vow, like a prayer, just to feel the way it sounds in my mouth. _Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian._

I hear the door open and shuffling feet and whispering voices enter the room. I cannot bear the thought of facing the day, but it seems the day is ready to face me.

'Mary?' Greer's voice calls softly, and the concern I hear in it squeezes at my aching heart. How do I look at them now, my friends, who I have known for so long? 'We have come to dress you.'

Gathering all of my courage to my chest, I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. I need to assure my court that I am alright now, I need to be seen to be alright, as much as I would like to hide away for the day.

'Thank you,' I say simply and they cluster around me. Lola dabs some of the salve Nostradamus mixed for me to the wound on my forehead while the other two undress me. Kenna gasps as she lifts my nightgown.

'What is it?' I ask, wrenching away from her as I'm gripped by sudden terror. I look at her face and she has tears in her eyes.

'I'm so sorry Mary, the bruises just caught me off guard,' she replies.

'What bruises?' I move over to the mirror and study my trembling body, turning this way and that. There is a dark, greenish-purple bruise on the side of my thigh, and a few angry splotches on my back, I'm guessing from when I fell from the horse, and then of course there is the unsightly gash on my head.

'They will fade though, Mary,' Greer assures me, but I realise that I'm not horrified by the sight of the bruises, I'm relieved. Because for one, shocking moment when Kenna gasped, I thought there might be fingerprints on my skin. I'm relieved because the mirror showed me that, while every inch of my body feels different today, while I was subconsciously expecting some kind of physical expression of the throbbing sensation his hands have left on me, I can see no sign of him on my body. Though I can see him in my eyes.

I turn away from the mirror at the sight of my eyes. 'I know they will,' I say, and my friends finish dressing me, lacing my corset and stays, wrapping me in skirts and silk and lace, coaxing my wild hair into a coiffure of elegance and restraint. I can hide this, I think to myself as I again glance in the mirror. I can hide behind my costume, my dress of auburn, the delicate bodice embroidered in golden thread. I take a deep breath. I already recounted what happened to Francis and his council yesterday, for which I am glad. I was gifted a sort of numbness yesterday that I don't have this morning, a sort of shock reaction I suppose. I only stumbled once, when faced with recounting my rescue, but Sebastian stepped in to tell a perfect, unfaltering report of what happened when he found me. It was so flawless, told with such detachment that I wondered for a moment if I had made what happened between us up on the ride back. It bothers me a bit, now that I am thinking about it this morning. How could he have seemed so composed when I am in turmoil? But at least I can refuse to talk about it all today. The story has been told, now the court gossips can inform anyone who still wants to know, warping it however they may wish. I can remain aloof from it all.

**Sebastian**

I want her. My thoughts chase each other round and round in circles, a hurricane of desire and self-loathing, remorse and hope, love and pain, spinning faster and faster until just being conscious is enough to make me feel dizzy and sick. Drinking only makes it worse and sleeping brings hot, fevered dreams that are half memory and half invention and always end with me gasping awake, sweating and unbearably thirsty. I know I should leave, but I give myself a thousand reasons as to why I can't. What if someone where to find out what happened and my mother suffered in my place? What if more assassins come for Mary? What if the pagans in the bloodwood need quelling? Francis would need my particular expertise for that. All different disguises for the real reason I cannot leave; what if Mary wants me again? I think she loves me. I could feel it in her, could taste it on her skin and hear it in her voice, and it's tethering me to the spot more surely than any rope or chain. For while such a possibility exists, I'm not strong enough to tear myself away.

And so I stay and watch her. I watch as she presents herself to the court in the days following the assassination attempt: flawless in dress, chin high, voice steady, looking every bit like the experience hasn't touched her. I watch her gestures, her expressions, listening for a quiver in her voice, looking for something, _anything_, to indicate that I'm there somewhere in her thoughts. Not that I have much of an opportunity to study her up close. As soon as I get anywhere near her she bolts, excusing herself from conversations, leaving rooms without so much as a glance in my direction. She's so aloof, it's hard to believe I ever touched her bare skin. I can't figure out what I'm supposed to do next, so I watch, as I always do, and wait for her.

I watch Francis, too, and I can't help how angry doing so makes me. I would do stupid, mad things to have the right to be the one to comfort Mary after what happened, and he hasn't even attempted to reach out to her. He has barely spoken to her since hearing her account of the assassination attempt, and seeing the lusty glances he casts at Lola makes me want to punch him. The tension between us grows ever more rigid. I feel more like an outcast at court than ever, like a child excluded from a game, just lingering and hoping for a chance to join in. Mary avoids me, Francis is at war with me, my mother pities me, I'm almost glad when my father summons me a few days after the assassination attempt, even though it usually means nothing good. At least someone isn't ignoring my existence.

**Mary**

It's at least a week before I'm ready to surface from my pool of self-torment. I keep my regular duties and appointments so no one can say I'm not recovered from my ordeal, but I know my real work lies in healing the rift between myself and Francis, and every morning I wake from treasonous dreams that leave me unable to look him in the eye. _I have been unfaithful_. The thought clatters around in my head, but I'm getting better at countering it. _I've done nothing that he hasn't done _is the most effective, but still doesn't quite ease the sickly feeling in my stomach. Being unfaithful as a king is nothing, but as a queen it is treason.

So this morning I have set myself the task of reconciliation. I choose a dress in muted colours with few decorations, modest sleeves and a high neckline. I want to seem demure and nonthreatening. _A dress won't prove your innocence _a voice in my head hisses, but I swat the thought away as Lola arranges my hair. I smile at her in the mirror, but she looks away quickly, concentrating on her work.

I frown for a moment, picking at topics of conversation. Why is it so difficult to talk to my friends?

'So have you met this young man of Greer's?' I ask softly. She smiles in surprise and glances over her shoulder to where the other girls are chatting.

'No, but how do you know she's seeing someone? I'm not even supposed to know.'

'I know everything,' I whisper conspiratorially and for some reason that make her look a little… panicked. 'What's wrong?' I ask, and she looks away.

'Some things are better left unknown,' she mumbles, putting the final pin in my hair and hurrying off, leaving me confused and concerned. It seems I have another relationship that needs tending. But one thing at a time. Today I will focus on my marriage.

When I see Francis sitting at his table, tapping his fingers on the wood and looking agitated, the prospect of reuniting seems as distant as my home in Scotland does. But I have to try.

'Good morning,' I say brightly as I approach him, and he looks at me as he might through a window from the top of the guard tower, as though I am a long way away and almost indistinguishable.

'How are you feeling today?' he asks as I sit down next to him.

'I wish everyone would stop asking me that. I'm not an invalid, I'm fine,' I reply, before remembering that I'm supposed to be the embodiment of reconciliation. He frowns.

'You're fine because sheer dumb luck would have it so. You know you made it easy for them, careening off into the woods as though you weren't a queen and the bloodwoods were a rose garden. And you were the one telling _me_ not to be reckless with your safety.'

I can feel my temper rising and I take a deep breath before responding. 'I know, but I was upset. And I think you'll remember exactly why I was upset.'

'If you want to have this conversation now, I don't think this is the place-'

'No, I don't want to have this conversation now,' I swiftly interrupt. I'm not going to pretend to lecture from my moral high ground when really I'm down in the mud beside him. 'I want to bury the hatchet. Things haven't been right between us since we came back from our honeymoon.' _Or on our honeymoon _I add silently, remembering reaching out in the night to find cold sheets beside me. 'But we aren't just husband and wife, we are the future king and queen. We need to be on the same side for the sake of France. And Scotland.'

Francis sighs and touches my hand. 'You're right, of course. We have both made mistakes, but revisiting them isn't likely to help. I will make more of an effort to heal the bond between us.'

'Thank you,' I say with a watery smile. It's not much, but it's a start. But then I open my mouth and more words fall out before I can stop them. 'You know it wasn't dumb luck that saved my life, it was Bash.'

Francis withdraws his hand and his body stiffens. 'Yesterday's would-be usurper, today's hero, what will he be tomorrow I wonder?'

I should let it go, but I can't. 'You are holding this grudge against him because of what happened before our wedding, but it wasn't his fault. He doesn't deserve your disdain.'

Francis runs a hand through his hair, his face petulant. 'Always Sebastian. I'm tired of hearing about Sebastian. If my brother seeks my favour perhaps he should come and see me himself instead of sending you as his advocate. I suppose I will have to hear more of the same from Kenna soon.'

I'm about to snap a heated response, but the last part catches me and I pause, perplexed. 'From Kenna? Why would she be Sebastian's advocate?'

'My father is arranging a marriage between them,' he replies dismissively, returning to examining the papers in front of him. Later, I'll be grateful for his waning attention to me, because my expression cracks and for a few, deadly moments I wear my feelings on my face. I feel as though I've just been punched in the abdomen.

'I'll leave you to your work,' I manage to choke out, before I get up and walk quickly out of the room, my shoulders back, my head held high, trying to disguise this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that is trying to claw its way out. And before I realise what I'm doing, I've begun looking for him. It's almost funny how hard I've been trying to avoid him when all it took was one sentence from Francis to obliterate my carefully constructed self-restraint. I approach a few different serving staff before one directs me to the gardens because apparently many of the courtiers are out enjoying the sunshine. And I hope he's down there, because running around asking people where I might find him is reckless.

It's a beautiful day. The blue of the sky is a bright contrast against the lush green of the trees, and a soft breeze gifts me the scent of the last of the autumn blooms. Courtiers are drifting across the lawns in pairs and groups, preening their brightly-coloured plumage and twirling parasols. Their voices and laugher reach me, but the words are indistinct and sound more like bird calls than conversation.

Even though he's in the shadows, I can pick him out immediately, as though my every sense is fine-tuned to seek him. There, under the trees, shaded from the sun. But he's not alone. Even from all the way over here I know that Kenna is standing very close to him, and as I watch she laughs and flicks her hair. And Bash is… smiling. Not that he shouldn't be allowed to smile, of course. And not that he doesn't have every right to talk to pretty girls. But suddenly I can imagine it, Sebastian married to Kenna. I can imagine him teasing her, protecting her, brushing her hair away from her face, kissing her the way he kissed me, touching her the way he touched me and I can't stand it. Then he looks across the garden at me and he must be able to see it all in my face, laid out for him like ink on paper, because his expression changes and he quickly excuses himself from his conversation with Kenna. Her eyes follow him as he makes his way towards me and there is a possessiveness in her gaze that makes me feel physically sick. Because there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

'Is everything alright, your Grace?' he asks, his voice even, calm, detached.

'Everything is fine, just lovely,' I snap. 'Why do you always assume there is something wrong?'

'Have I done something to offend you?'

'No. But you may offend Kenna by lingering with me, so if you'll excuse me-'

His mouth twitches at the corner, as if he's suppressing a smile. 'Do I detect a hint of jealousy?'

My face turns crimson. 'Absolutely not. It is nothing to me who you spend your time with. Absolutely nothing.' I walk away, intending to find a place amidst the hedges press my face into my skirts and scream, but he follows me, and I should stop him in case anyone sees us as we disappear into the trees together, but right now I just don't care.

'At least it got you to talk to me. You've been avoiding me all week,' he says pleasantly, easily keeping pace with my angry marching.

'I haven't been avoiding you, I just have nothing to say,' I reply, my eyes fixed on the path before me, veering off it when I hear voices up ahead. Is there nowhere in this whole damn château where I can be alone?

'I think there might be some things to say.'

'Well perhaps I don't want to say them. Now if you'd just leave me alone-'

He reaches out and takes a hold of my arm, forcing me to stop. When I look at him there are storm clouds passing across his face. I've made him angry. Good.

'Don't walk away from me. You can't just use me and walk away. You think you can sacrifice whoever and whatever to get what you want, no matter the consequences. I let you use me like that once, I betrayed my brother and reached for the throne for you, only to have you discard me when it suited you. But it's not going to happen again. You don't get to just walk away from me.'

His grip on my arm is unrelenting, even when my eyes fill with tears, hot with shame and regret. I can't help but cry, because everything he has said is true. But where does that leave us?

'Bash,' I begin, 'what happened in the bloodwood-'

'What happened in the bloodwood, Mary?' he interrupts, ducking his head to hold my eyes when I glance at the ground. 'What specifically happened in the bloodwood between us that is so unbearable to speak of?'

I keep my eyes fixed on his feet. 'You know what I'm talking about.'

'Do you mean when we held each other in the bloodwood? When we made love in the bloodwood?'

I feel like my whole body blushes as I say quietly, 'yes.'

He puts a finger beneath my chin and forces me to look up at him. 'Was it really so horrible that we can't even speak of it?' he asks, his blue eyes searching mine, enveloping me, absorbing me.

'You know that's not the reason we can't speak of it,' I say, my voice barely a whisper.

His eyes flicker to my lips and I can feel a heady longing pumping through my blood, clouding my senses and making me feel a little bit drunk.

'We shouldn't have come back,' he says hoarsely, before dropping his hand back to his side. 'But we did, and this is how we live now.'

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself, beating back memories of things I cannot have. 'So you are set to marry Kenna.'

This time, he doesn't look amused by the strain in my voice. He just looks sad. 'If my father has his way. Perhaps it's an appropriate match.' He smiles wryly, 'we have a lot in common. We are both in love with people we can never call our own.'

I fiddle with the fabric of my dress, casting around for something more to say, knowing that I should end this conversation now but unable to bring myself to do so. I just want to be near him for a few moments longer. But I'm beginning to understand this hunger now and I know this won't be enough to quench it. The more I get of him, the more I want.

'I should go,' I say, taking a few steps back. 'It's dangerous for us to be seen together, especially now.'

'Sensible as always, your grace,' he replies, bowing deeply. I turn and hurry away, my heart pounding and my skin feverish, half of me hoping he will follow, but when I glance back he's standing exactly where I left him, watching me.


End file.
